P is for Poverty
This then is the new poverty, the new austerity. The heating only turned on when guests arrive and their arrial another financial anxiety, 4 days of no lunch, no breakfast to pay for 2 almost drinkable bottles of wine.
Shoes mended, heels super glued back on, clothes e-bayed, freecycle checked daily as the washing machine makes more and more noises indicating near death.
Social inviations neatly parryied, so busy, so so busy, no time for anything but work.
Penny pinching become the norm, the discovery of a forgotten fiver in a coat a cause for celebration.
But outwardly, still good, clothes remain smart, car creaks through another MOT and the 3 remaining handbags, soft Italian leather match most of the remaining shoes.
Q is for Queer
Queer, the notion of Queer, the Nation of Queer freed me.
Gave me identity when no -one seemed willing to let me in.
Reclaimed the word, reclaimed the streets
“we’re here, we’re queer – get used to it”
Unlikely allegiances – Dykes and Trannies and Bears and Bikers, Disco Bunnies. Butch & Femme.
Never really a joiner, more an active tourist, I marched behind the banner and wore the t-shirt
[ a little bit] gay and proud.
R is for Ruby
Rubys Jewel – best and biggest of all horses.
Named not after the stone but the man who bred you, Mr Martin Ruby who when I tracked him down, decades later, had become old, in bed at 8 pm when I rang, didn’t hold with the inter-net or the phone, his daughter said and she wasn’t sure if he would remember the horse, but thanked me, her voice quiet, blurred on a bad rural line.
And by then, you were old too, stiff, a little tired, happy to stand in your field and watch the world go by.
We took photographs of you on your last day, my head buried in your neck, your ears pricked to the sound of my tears and then chocolate produced and you snuffled in my pocket, convinved, as always, that there was another piece just waiting fro your attention.