Gavin, I should point out, is the husband.

‘I’m worried about Lucy,’ he said, straight out.

‘I don’t blame you,’ I thought, but said nothing.

‘Suspect she’s having an affair. Any ideas?’

‘Divorce,’ I suggested. ‘You might even get custody.’

‘No, I mean Lucy,’ he persisted. ‘Who with?’

We walked on in silence, until casually, I asked:

‘An affair, you say, what makes you so convinced?’

He stopped and produced from an inside pocket

A sheet of paper which I recognized at once.

It was this poem. Handwritten, an early draft.

Then I saw the gun. ‘For God’s sake, Gavin,

It’s only a p…

It’s Only a P… Part Two

A shot rang out. The bullet was not intended for me.

It embedded itself harmlessly into a tall sycamore.

(Harmlessly, that is, except for the tall sycamore.)

Gavin pocketed the gun. I was shaking like a leaf.

I seized his arm. ‘It’s over now,’ I stammered

‘There was nothing in it really. A moment of madness.’

I was lying and wondered if he could tell.

He gave no sign, so relaxing my grip we walked on.

‘You’d better have this,’ he said, and held out the poem.

‘But I’d rather you didn’t publish. Spare my blushes.’

I took it. ‘If not for me for Lucy’s sake.’

‘Trust me,’ I said and crumpled it into a ball.

Behind us, the sycamore rose swaying from the bushes,

Staggered across the ornamental lake

And collapsed against a wall.

Awful Acrobats

Poets make awful acrobats.

Good at barely moving

Idle musing has impaired

Their sense of balance.

Once the horizon tilts

Everything begins to slide:

Cups and saucers, trees,

Buildings, spirit-levels.

Out of touch with the ground

They are out of touch with themselves.

Struggling to make sense of air

They become entangled with it.

The roll of drums:

A few floppy cartwheels

A crumpled somersault

Then up on to the high wire…

After the first falter, the fall.

It is faultless. The safety-net

Holds out its arms. The poet

misses.

(Gravity hangs its head in shame.)

Poets have a way with language

A certain jauntiness with hats

They can make a decent curry

And are very fond of cats

Though some are closet fascists

In the main they’re democrats

But all things being considered

Poets make awful acrobats.

3

The City of London Tour

‘Along Leadladen Street

Into Snarl-up Close

Through Crosspatch

Into Coronary Circus

Past Foulmouth Gardens

Into Fetid Lane

Along Profligate

To the station at Charnel House

Up Dirtneedle Street

Into Destitute Square

Down Pacemaker Passage

(Nearly there)

A quick one in the “Half Lung”

(Leave your gasmask at the door)

Which concludes, ladies and gents,

The City of London Tour.’

Five-car Family

We’re a five-car family

We got what it takes

Eight thousand cc

Four different makes

One each for the kids

I run two

One for the missus

When there’s shopping to do