A record of a lonely and bitter mother scolding her son for picking up his estranged father’s bad habits at the breakfast table

Monday

You eat those Cheerios like they’re about to be rationed;
We used to chew our food if that’s so old-fashioned.

Tuesday

There was more gobble in that than on a turkey farm
That the Honey Monster himself would stand in alarm.

Wednesday

Don’t slouch on the seat or slurp on your tea,
And don’t hold that spoon like it was wriggling free.

Thursday

You know you can eat your toast in more than a bite:
That strawberry jam isn’t about to ignite.

Friday

You drink your squash like you want to drown,
And you eat your Coco Pops before the milk goes brown.

Comments

An Expert Analysis of Michael Fassbender's Running Style From the Film 'Shame'

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I cannot say exactly when I first discovered Norman MacCaig. It may have been at the beginning of this year, but could well have been at the end of last. I found him through a tweet. Six months or more is a long time on Twitter, and when tweets get to a certain age, they're as stubbornly elusive as a missing person who wants to stay missed. But I know the tweet was left by poet Jo Bell , the director of National Poetry Day, and whose wonderful blog can be found here . The link she left took me to an enthralling 25-minute interview with MacCaig. I liked the man instantly. I replied to Jo by saying what how charming MacCaig was. He had a warm sparkle in his eye that only Scots seem to have access to. He epitomised charismatic. Unfortunately, embedding has been disabled on the video, but it can be found here . Fast forward to yesterday. I was sat in Stanman's Kitche...

Mr Pebble Pockets

I’ve called him Mr Pebble Pockets because if I don’t make a joke out of it I’ll cry. It was about 10:30pm, I’d just got back to the boat from a late shift and I was waiting for my Deliveroo. He was standing a little further down the towpath and staring at the water. The night was clear and crisp and there was enough moonlight to see the shape of him: he was tall, late twenties and had a powerful sporty look to him. He wasn’t crying, but he was shaking and he stood crooked. Well, it doesn’t take a genius, does it? I only came out to wait for a bloody curry. Mother Florence bloody Teresa Nightingale springing into action, hungry and as tired as fuck and now having to stop this guy from jumping into the canal with an anchor for a coat. I know now that the best thing to do was offer him a cigarette. I don’t know why I didn’t. I had the packet and the lighter in my hand. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘Ar...

Tom Wiggins, Letter Carver & Writer

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