Wednesday, August 25, 2010

The Butter Of Our Unhappiness


Here is my kneecap. I only use it on Wednesdays. How about that for a moment of sheer unadulterated ordinariness? No-one here changes socks like that anymore, not on bank holidays anyway.

Is there any point in saving these eggshells, now your Auntie has returned to Bournemouth? It was all such a long time ago and now our armpits are moist with sweat again.

I shall boil all the old underpants. I shall fry my mushrooms in the butter of our unhappiness. I shall always remember that day you smiled, briefly. But it was only a superficial wound, and I soon recovered.

So, what happens now we've given it all up? What will become of these days? Will we forget, as we forgot before? Will our memories of those special chip shops be lost? Will those close-up photographs of the tubs of mushy peas lose their special meaning for us, as we walk away into just one more sad sunset?

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