Sophie spent last night typing up some of her (annoyingly excellent) poems to put on her (so far incomplete) website while I failed to get a wireless network card to work under Linux. Leaving her to crawl back out of her bottle of Cabernet, I skulked off to bed, musing on how unimaginative I was and how everything I said that sounded witty was just a re-hashed mish-mash of stuff I’d heard and read, like Morrissey lyrics and Stephen King books. Which made me wonder what a collaboration between Morrissey and Stephen King would sound like:-

I would go out tonight
But there’s a demon underneath my sta-airs

Oh it’s really there
and I’m so scared
but nobody cares
oh ha-hoooo

Got up this morning to find the sofa covered in old poems and valentines from and to Sophie’s ex-paramours. Clearly, she’s longing for someone more creative and it’s time I started marking which CDs are mine. More importantly, making sure the Bonnie Raitt and Dean Friedman go with her.

I’m not one for Omens but the puppy-poetry woman was in the park again today. I went to stroke the dog’s nose and it symbolically ran off.

The whole dog, not just the nose

AND the woman was reading


a Stephen King.