But bumping into you in a club on a Friday night,
asking if you’ll lend him a tenner then shouting,
you’ve got great jugs, really, I mean it,
in your ear.
Did I go home with the English-breakfast-sushi chef?
I did.
His children’s doleful eyes were quite off-putting, Ava.
I kept mine shut, conjured the señorita from the
painting – it helped.
I’ve found she still pops up from time to time,
when I need assistance –
Goodgod.
Maybe I’m the Man who had Failed.
I’m watching you, Ava,
posting photos on your way to a friend’s wedding.
I knew you had a gang!
Prosecco, silk pyjamas, hair tongs…
In my mind I’m loitering near the venue
shifty, hood up,
head down, waiting for you to arrive.
As you walk past me
I catch your arm
…there was a ship!
My weather-beaten face, my bloodshot eyes, an ugly
friendship-mug around my neck.
Goodlord. Goodlord. Goodlord.
What would I tell you?
A warning –
something about death and greed and
inspiration…
something nautical, I think –
what about the Agamemnon – Nelson’s favourite
ship – whose birthplace I visited… and saw a ghost,
no, really, Ava.
What a mess that was.
Boatswain’s Clench, the place was called –
pronounced Bosun, Ava, these old
words can be a trap –
Goodstock Shipshape Shipmate
a charcoal stove tried to kill me there,
