WE DEEPLY REGRET TO INFORM YOU

TELEGRAMS IN THEIR THOUSANDS

THE HEARTS OF LOVED ONES SINK

ALL THAT WASTED PAPER

ALL THAT WASTED INK

A hashtag is trending in my heart and it goes by the name of #DouglasRIP.

Chandrima called to tell me the news. He had met up with some fellow re-enactors last Thursday morning, she said, as part of a documentary commemorating the Battle of the Somme. Douglas was one of the first of the ‘Tommies’ out of the trenches but fell within seconds, amidst the smoke and pyrotechnics the production team had conjured up that morning. He lay there for four hours, face down in no-man’s-land, before one of his fellow re-enactors realised there was something wrong. It was thought he’d had a heart attack, perhaps triggered by the shock of a flare whistling overhead.

It is so very sad but this is how he would have liked to have gone, said Chandrima, seeking to console. I know exactly what she means: Douglas in uniform, on the battlefield, fighting for Queen, Country and Television Production Company.

Tuesday July 24th

It was in a state of Douglaslessness that I loaded up the dishwasher and scoured the work surfaces. And, as I did so, I found myself meditating deeply on the meaning of existence and the nature of death. What if I was suddenly struck down as I re-ordered this cutlery basket, for instance; what might others say of me? I imagined my gravestone:

BRIAN BILSTON

He never quite managed

to seize the day.

But he sure stacked a dishwasher

in an orderly way.

I found myself asking questions that went straight to the very heart of things. Sensing that this might be prime poetry-writing territory, I wrote them down:

a) what purpose serves a life?

b) what constitutes a life well-lived?

c) is happiness a social construct?

d) is there any rinse-aid left?

e) where do we go to when we die?

I thought long and hard. This was difficult stuff and the search for answers exhausting. After a few hours my brain could take no more; I looked down at what I’d written in response.

a) don’t know

b) not sure

c) probably

d) no idea

e) maybe check the cupboard under the stairs

I may have got some of the answers muddled up but it was a start, I suppose.

Wednesday July 25th

Ink Nothing of It

In that cheap rented room, he lay for weeks

upon the threadbare carpet, half-hid,

underneath virgin printer paper sheets

and some empty inkjet cartridges.

The finer things in life I always did lack

because of the cyan, magenta, yellow and black.

‘I knew him when he was up at Cambridge,’

said one at the funeral, ‘Not a loner,

then, by any means. Popular, quite rich.

And, back in those days, quite free of toner.’

Pity me, the penniless, penurious fellow,

because of the black, magenta, cyan and yellow.