Daily missive for Tuesday the 28th of February.

“It comes upon me

In the strangest places.”

He whispers

As if afraid of being overheard

“In the bloomin’ bathroom

For goodness sake.”

When on his own, with nothing to look at

But a mirror

“Old-time nostalgia.”

There was a time he might have read a paper

But those days are long gone.

He read the Guardian on the phone

But not on the loo.

He was frightened that

Like him,

It would fall down the pan

“If it can happen, it will.”

There was a time in a hard January, long ago

When the village streets froze completely.

Most years

All the kids who had skates

Or could improvise,

Had played on the ice

Covering a pond on Cutler’s field.

He always laid bales of hay around the edge

And sometimes held a barbecue.

Selling sausages and burgers

Jacket potatoes baked in silver foil,

As if it was Guy Fawkes night

He was an entrepreneur.

It was a good way to be sure

The villagers would work on the harvest

Every year.

The Young Farmers Association

Had a barn dance with a band

The locals were never invited.

One time,

When the streets were snowbound,

Cars were abandoned,

The buses were marooned,

Bright-eyed kids

With rosy cheeks and happy faces

Skated to and fro,

From one street to another,

It looked like a Christmas Carol.

The village school was closed

The youth club was for those over thirteen

The scouts insisted on short trousers

And it was too cold,

There was nothing to do but be curious,

Invent an adventure,

Doggedly trail

A one-eyed Fox

As far as the woods,

Where, according to the story

The communists lived

In a collective.

A community of huggers,

At least

That’s what the kids thought

The adults said.

They hid in the trees like snipers

And watched them dance

To acoustic music

Brandishing tambourines

Beating bongoes

The willy wankers were bonkers

Either at one with nature

Or off their heads

If you believed the pious old dears

Who had signed the pledge

Against liquor

But liked a chocolate liqueur

With a glass of ginger beer

After Christmas dinner

And never said “no” to a dry sherry

Or a snowball.

She had often liked a Bailey’s

Back in the day

But he didn’t keep it in the house anymore

It smacked of celebration.

Just a single malt

And a few bottles of beer

For rehydration.

Soon it would be half past five and time to take the cork

Out of the bottle.

It was as musky

As a cask-aged Djinn,

Unpredictable of mood

As it always got his wishes wrong

But at least they had

Come true once

And he could live with that

For the time being.