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A Poem A Day 22

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Foolish Oaths and Rash Promises

Not meaning to put myself in the same bracket as any of the 1000-faced heroes of legend, but in an attempt to cultivate positive, creative habits rather than reinforce old, less salubrious ones, I made a rash public promise that I would write a poem every day for a month, starting on the 14th January to the 14th February inclusive, meaning 32 poems over the next 32 days.  I hereby pledge to write one poem a day for the next month, up to and including 14th February. — Innominate Primate (@TheMightyBuch) January 13, 2015 This is something I think I need to do, to make sure I follow through. I've tried things like #100HappyDays , have told myself I would attempt 50 sit-ups and press-ups on waking up each day, or would get up at five am and do an hour's writing before showering and getting ready for work, but up to this point I have been incredibly consistent in the breaking of my word to myself. Guilt lends fuel to the shame spiral engine, and down I would go, into brown b...
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Stay angry, people.

Ed's dead, baby. Borrowed, with thanks, from the Independent I was unsure whether or not to write a post, post-election, on my post-election blues. For the most part, this was because I'm sure that political commentators, bloggers, activists, and people with far more understanding of the political landscape and the effect that the latest result would have on the lives of those for whom the spectre of a Tory government was only a bad dream, a shade that haunted at night when the lights burned low and the wolves howled at the door, had already used all of the adjectives and metaphors of despair in ways far more eloquent than anything I might come up with. I find however that I must say something, even if it doesn't help matters, to explain to myself more than anyone else why it is I feel so miserable. I will probably have no right to bemoan a Conservative government - my country still has a socialist leader, in theory if not in practice - particularly as I did very littl...
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Ah, memories, how fleeting etc

Cleaning up the old FB inbox, I came across a message (see below) from a chum who reminded me how indifferent the Universe can be to the trials of mere mortals.   Firstly, my name isn't Chris (although Mark may have been protecting my identity - no need old bean!) and secondly, I'm not sure The Hayes Island Snack Bar sells pies... Still, on the first point, Ninjah (residents of Cardiff will know exactly which 7 foot bin-thumping rap star I'm talking about) called me Nick for ten years, and the lovely Lisa from Jazzy Jackets in the market insisted my name was Matt. When set straight they were respectively mystifyingly unperturbed (Ninjah didn't care - he preferred Nick to Gareth), and embarrassingly forgetful (I became instead "Maaaaa - shit! - Gar!")   Anyway, I have no idea about how genuine this extract courtesy of Mark Thomas may be, but it warms my cockles nonetheless. Enjoy.   13 November 2008     Mark Thomas can't remember things the way they happene...
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There's a bit missing...