NATIONAL WRITING DAY – 2019
Banging on my manual typo on the edge of my bed with a toothache, two Ibuprofen and a bottle of red, trying not to irritate my hormonal landlady who wants me to take out a loan, a Mercedes Benz, she says, silver, a sexy car, the fastest Mercedes you can get, a compressor sports, but I’m not compliant, happy with debt, pissing her off, she’s watching catch-up on TV, soaps, seething with anger.
I’ve been writing since I was fifteen, fucked up – poems in various magazines, Brittle Star and South Bank Poetry – a green pack of bagels for the landlady, cream cheese, hot chicken madras, Yoko Ono and Japanese calligraphy, banging away on my Brother Deluxe 800, listening to Davie Allan and the Arrows, Polyurethane, recorded live.
Maybe take the dog for a walk, tetanus injections, what about if he bites a child, said the nurse, you should tell the RSPCA, I know your landlady won’t let you, she’s curled up on the sofa, black bra and lacy panties, watching soaps, the dog barks at nothing, Rio, Rio, she says, a grass root in his paw..
I’ve been writing since boarding school in Canterbury, none of my stories reaching a climax, applauded for my general lack of sentiment, anti-climax, the dog barking at the adverts, chocolate and beer.
Oh no, my landlady hurled my laptop at the wall, saying it was out of date, needing another, banging on my manual typo.
Simon Robson
Bindweed Magazine 