J, K, L


J is for Jokes
Horse walks into a bar, barman asks “why the long face?”

Horse walks into a bar, “ouch”

Horse walks into a bar, barman says ” I’m a frayed knot”

I’s the way I tell them.

I fell in love with you because of the jokes, long, complicated, usually pointless.
My only response a groan and a punch to your arm, but secretly I loved them, loved the craft of your telling, loved the wait for the hopeless punchline, responded with my own punch of course.

Most of all, I loved the idea of your remembering them and carrying them carefully, wrapped in your mind, a night time gift.

K is for the KLF
Justified and Ancient
Soundtrack to a hundred late night sorties.
Too clever by half, ageing disco divas re-vitalised, careers re-born,touched by your genius of repetitive beats
You burnt a suitcase of money,your protest against installation art and made your own anti-installation, installation.
Ironic, eh?
You live on some Scottish loch, collect tanks, make films where nothing hapens,
Clearly, you should have married me.

L is for Lepers.

Once upon a time, a grandfather took his little grand-daughter to the cinema, an evening treat and with unheard of extravagance allowed her to choose anything from the usherette, neck bowed from the weight of the confectionery tray.
The grand-daughter took her time, weighed up the choices and finally pointed, daringly, to the most expensive choice, a box of butterscotch, each sweet wrapped individually in silver paper.
The film began, the grandfather settled back, the child leaned forward, cheeks bulging and took in the chariot races, the sword fights and then the horror. In half darkness, a blue black screen, faces hidden in shadows, the lepers.
Afterwards, the child silent, they drove home, the box of butterscotch, half eaten, cardboard damp, the sweets sweaty, clumping together.
In bed that night, the child lay completely still, eyes wide open and finally, unable to bear it any longer, she leapt from the bed and taking a deep breath, she flung open the cupboard door, expecting to see the hidden, ruined faces of the lepers.
Re-assured, but not convinced, she took care to check all bedroom cupboards for the whole of that long warm summer.

About cathi rae

50ish teacher & aspiring writer and parent of a stroppy teenager and carer for a confused bedlington terrier and a small selection of horses who fail to shar emy dressage ambitions. Interested in contemporary fiction but find myself returning to PG Wodehouse when the chips are down View all posts by cathi rae

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