Unclehood Part II

Last week, my sister
gave birth to a bouncing baby girl.
At home. In the living-room. In an inflatable pool.
They're going to name her Iseult. Maybe.
Thing is, they're finding it hard to decide.
They have a few weeks in which to make their minds up.
Before the official birth certificate has to be signed.
In the meantime, my nephew
has given his new sibling the nickname of "Mossie".
Turns out that it means "first-born" in Swahili.
Not strictly-speaking accurate then,
but you never know, it might just end-up sticking.

SMS Attack

It's a Friday night.
Her booze-loosened thumb's been working overtime.
The bombardment of textual malice
sends my old-skool 3310 teetering towards meltdown.
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The View From Cripplegate

The subterranean theatre has a
strict NO-LATECOMERS-ADMITTED policy.
That's the reason why I'm sat here;
eating stewed pasta-bake with a plastic fork.
I'll be fine. I've got my Murakami to read.
I'll just sit it out. Wait for the interval. Maybe have a wander.
On the way here, I read a newspaper article
about how some brown bears
had chased, caught, killed and then eaten
a macaque monkey at a zoo in the Netherlands.
The article upset me,
but that's the law of the jungle I suppose.
Even in captivity.
Part history, part political fable,
the play that I've missed the start of also has an animal theme.
So I've been led to believe.
It's based on one of the masterpieces
of Arab and Persian culture.
I have friends involved.
You could say I'm here out of a sense of duty.
I booked the tickets weeks ago.
My intended "date" for tonight couldn't make it in the end.
His 11th hour replacement is all alone in there;
sat next to an empty seat.
My empty seat.
I feel bad about that.
Where once there were plague pits,
now stands this rabbit-warren of steel and concrete brutalism.
"Her Majesty The Queen", reads the placard;
"opened the Barbican Centre for Arts
and Conferences on the 3rd of March 1982."
And here was me thinking it was older than that.
It looks older than that.
Shakespeare Tower is the (joint) 14th tallest building in London.
It rises 403-feet into the stagnant air above.
One of the country's
foremost eye-surgeons lives near its summit.
His only daughter and I
once talked about making love, up there,
on the balcony of that wind-swept eyrie.
High above the city.
Far from the madding crowds.
Times have changed however.
As they are wont to do.
That'll have to go down as an opportunity missed.
If I'm not mistaken, they're ringing the bell for half-time.