Sunday, May 18, 2008


I’ve been imagining this:-


A bookshop.


“If, once more, you charge £5,000 for botanical books I’ve not bought,” (I’m saying this in a tough, gangsterish voice) “I’ll go to the police.”

The woman behind the counter pales. Shrinks into her suit.

“Pressed geranium flowers,” I whisper (menacingly).

She’ll send no more. (I can tell by the way she clutches fearfully at her beads.)

I leave.

Oh! Very likely!

Truth is as floppy as a Spider Plant leaf.

As squashy as a ripe persimmon.

But with invisible threads (like a prickly pear) - and the skin slicing power of grass.

The bookselling woman would ‘sing’ about Ming.

Identity - uncertain.

Papers - forged.

Date of birth - unknown.

The police wouldn’t look for Algerian Goths.

(In Dorchester.)

They’d soon find out where we live.

We’d run.

But where?

Not Mars!

(No air!)

I need a lie.

A good one.


Bad . . . . . .

She steals books from the British Library and sells them in brown-paper covers?

Her cleaning lady is paid a pittance?


Does she drink while she drives?

Take drugs?

Grow them?

Plants . . . . . .
Ferns . . . . . .
Pluto . . . . . .

Flower power?
. . . . . . Might be worth a try.

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