My Mum calls them "Gamps" ...... ;-)

I've always loved the old style umbrella's, but then I'm a vintage kind of gal. I like parasols too and think it's a shame they died out fashion wise. I would much rather be pale and interesting than burnt. I think deep down, despite the day to day clothing of t-shirt, jeans and trainers, I am a Goth at heart. If you watch NCIS on the TV you will be familiar with the character of Abby. I love her style and she uses a lovely black lace parasol when it's sunny or when she attends a funeral. Due to the nature of the programme of course, she attends a fair few. Another thing I love ... NCIS.

Away from the small screen, my favourite way to relax is to sit in a dimly lit room (by candle or fire light) and listen to the rain on the window. Even better at my Mum's house, as she has a small conservatory style room on the back (which she calls "The Potting Shed"). The sound of the rain as it hits the roof is awesome! I love it!! The harder the downpour, the better. But then, I would say that wouldn't I? I am inside on a horrible day, nice and dry. I don't think I would feel the same if I was out in it!


Umbrella

Head bowed, shoulders hunched
collar upturned, grasped tight.
He moves through the town centre
searching
for shelter.
This is not his town ...
he is a newcomer
looking for a new start.
But, with no money
and nowhere to stay,
he walks the streets,
the good places already taken
by the natives.
He readjusts his rucksack
on his shoulder - 
the contents getting heavier
with the addition of rainwater;
those silver stair-rods
changing colour
depending on the neon behind,
glittering on his tired, weary eyes
as they watch ...
monitor for intruders.
Not just from the tutting shopkeepers
shooing him away from their doorways
denying him a temporary oasis,
or the pickpockets
who will take anything you've got ...
but the sting of steeley spokes
from a swarm of multi-coloured domes
bob, bob, bobbing
in time with the beat and thrum,
the ever onward drum,
of drops on the canopies
and hurried feet
carrying their owners home
or at least
away from the wet.
If only he had the luxury
of an umbrella ...
It would be some shelter at least;
instead, sodden toes
in sodden socks and shoes
trudge forward
carrying a wet man
in wet clothes
and the weight of a water filled world
upon his shoulders.


Thanks for reading. ;-) x

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What's your name?

Because I thought it was Wednesday (and not Thursday) today's post is both late and short.

There was a time about 10 years ago when I returned home to my London flat and felt guilty for not properly acknowledging someone. On realising I couldn't even describe him, despite only passing thirty minutes earlier, I wrote this:

Homeless

I passed you on Blackfriars Bridge,

dropped some change in a polystyrene cup,

and said - you're welcome.

Your sign said you were hungry,

I thought money would be enough

to fill the gap,

But how could it?

I should have stopped,

asked your name, and allowed you for minute

to be someone again.

Thank you for reading,

Lara

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I have a badly kept secret.

Working in a newsagents provides me with countless opportunities to read. I have to tell you now- this dirty little secret of mine is not something I'm ashamed of, I even embrace it.

Wander into my workplace of a morning and, if I'm on, you could probably notice a few magazines on the side. I read lots of them: Stuff for things I can't buy in the UK or even afford, Private Eye for a regular laugh at David 'I like soundbites I do' Cameron and co, Cosmo to try and stay ahead of the evil sex- at least in thinking, Woman's Weekly because I really don't care that I'm male- I like the stories (normally to mock) and they always seem to have a vegan recipe, More, Reveal, Real Lives, Now...for scandal and ridiculous stories and, by home time- I tend to have read enough to at least half inspire a poem, even if it never makes it.

I always have a favourite story as well. Today I read all about a woman that has married a fairground carousel. Fruitcake. Apparently, she "rides the pole until she silently reaches orgasm". As I said, a fruitcake.

When the first 'read and scatter the thoughts' approach fails, I find that the Sunday inserts can prove inspirational. Between The Observer, The Sunday Telegraph, The Sunday Times, The FT Weekend, The Mail On Sunday (never bought, you should understand) and anything else with a poly-bagged free CD, I have acquired a huge pile of recycling that I plan to use. In fact, it is on days like these (Sundays) that I tend to have a flick through, so let's see.

Matt Cardle X Factor interview? No interest.

Frieze Art Fair? Not my thing.

World Homeless Day photograph special? Well, thank you very much The Independent on Sunday.

Name Withheld

I keep coming back. Another look

your car crash life irresistible.

And through the lens your eyes change.

You could be anyone. First, a wispy

bearded man, washed up.

Then, the friendly drinker. Still, no -

your whiskers, yard brush bristles,

the youthfully kept brow. You are timeless,

Name Withheld, and I fear you

like Rasputin.

And there we have it, my badly kept secret: I write and so I read- anywhere and everywhere I can. Flyers, mags, posters, cards, papers, books, pamphlets, adverts, shop signs, street names... I think the key is to keep your eyes open- only then will you see. Hope you enjoyed the poem, an excellent use of Sunday time I think.

Thanks for reading. I enjoyed that.

S.

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