Monthly Archives: December 2005
Broke, bitter, usually half-cut by lunchtime
Two months ago, as I was in Las Vegas shooting Osama bin Laden with a machine gun, a man connected to the publishing industry was reading the choicest extracts from my novel. Before him were two stacks of paper: one piled heavy and high and marked ‘NO’, the other much shorter, marked ‘YES’ and, I’d like to think, haloed with tinkly stars dancing to a heavenly coloratura.
Truth, Beauty and Above All Quantum Superposition
Suddenly I’m at an imaginary party.
“Nice party,†I say to a passing poet, rather lamely. She nods politely. I look around, a bit lost.
“Listen,†I say, “do you know why I’m here?â€
“I don’t even know why I’m here,†she says crankily. “Why am I a poet? You’re making me up, you tell me.â€
The Other Georgia
There is a man looking in my study window from the back yard. I suddenly can’t remember where I keep the cricket bat. He’s swarthy, and he’s tapping on the glass and saying something which I can’t hear because I’m listening to some traditional Georgian choral music on my headphones and I’ve just turned up the volume as high as I can stand to get the full majestic effect.
Posted in Naomi Robson, complete mortification, neurosis Comments closed
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