Wednesday, May 18, 2016

Was it all a lie?

He said.
No, when I was in it, I was in it,  I was trying
I wasn't lying.

We open, I open,  he opens
Those dusty chests of you did this and I did that
And was _that_ when
He asks. Of each one.

Like giving up is the worst sin.

No, when I gave up
Was that moment
You know when:
OK, I said.

But you knew it wasn't.

And so! It's about the money


But it's not that
 it's the weight of the past
and those chests in the attic flying open choking me with dust
and I can see no light for us,
for ME
and this new ending trips me and lies its heaviness on me,
and it whispers in my ear:


And I know
I know
For the first time
I can do better on my own.

And you know what (suddenly angry)
Why am I so desperate to say it's not about the money?! I am hardly a fucking gold digger.
I am _tired_ of scraping around, of having nothing, of there being no progress and never anything left over, of nothing being sacred,
And listening to you spinning your schemes and from Peter to Pauling and feeling bad if I want something for the house and do we have enough money for me to take the kids swimming?
And it's all draining away through your fingers down the pub, but if we argue about it, it's not the pints and the smokes and the fucking gambling machines, it's my bottle of wine and groceries and petrol. Well fuck you.
Fuck you
Fuck you.

So yes it's about the money
And it's about the lies
And most of all about never keeping faith with me
about anything we agreed

There would always be a reason.

I don't buy the bottle of wine these days.
I don't want it.

Sunday, May 08, 2016


I was very perplexed by Michael McIntyre's act last night, that had him complaining he looks Chinese when he's jet-lagged. On BBC at primetime. Just what?