There was a lively discussion at book group tonight concerning ‘symphorophilia’. This, I learnt, is the sensation of being sexually aroused by disasters or accidents. No one in the group admitted to harbouring such feelings although I did wonder about the man in front of me at the bar, having seen the way he’d looked at the barmaid after she’d dropped his bag of scampi fries on the floor and bent over to pick them up.

My own contribution to proceedings was slim on account of being exhausted from staying up late to try to finish it (I’d crashed out at 10.30pm having got as far as page 12). I bought an extra bowl of wasabi peas for the table to re-ingratiate myself with the group.

Friday January 26th

This is Not the Poem that I Had Hoped to Write

This is not the poem that I had hoped to write

when I sat at my desk and the page was white.

You see, there were other words that I’d had in mind,

yet this is what I leave behind.

I thought it was a poem to eradicate war;

one of such power, it would heal all the sores

of a world torn apart by conflict and schism.

But it isn’t.

Lovers, I’d imagined, would quote from it daily,

Mothers would sing it to soothe crying babies.

And whole generations would be given new hope.

Nope.

I had grand aspirations. Believe me, I tried.

Humanity examined with lessons applied.

But the right words escaped me; so often they do.

Have these in lieu.

The bin men have pinned a note to the Man at Number 29’s rubbish bags, informing him that as he’d put out more than the regulatory number of sacks to be collected (five), they will not be removing any of them today. I wanted to write a poem about ‘refuse collection’ – refuse being both a synonym for ‘rubbish’ and also a verb which means ‘to turn down’ and thus working brilliantly on two separate levels – but some days the words I would like to write are not the ones I end up writing.

I came home an hour early from work, having invented a doctor’s appointment, for no good reason other than it being Friday. As I arrived back, the cat emerged through the cat-flap. She was surprised to see me. Her whiskers twitched with guilt. I inspected the house for dead rodents or birds but none were forthcoming.

Saturday January 27th

After I’d dropped Dylan back at Sophie’s, I beetled off to meet Darren for 27th Club. Our monthly get-together is something we both continue to keep secret from Sophie because if there’s one person in the world who, in her eyes, comes close to being as big a disappointment as me, then it’s her younger brother, Darren.