Skip to main content

King Snail and Other Silly Thoughts

I had this line in my head.  ‘I want to get to the heart of how you feel.’  Couldn’t stop thinking about it.  Didn’t know what to do with it.  If I played an instrument, I might’ve used it in a song.  Written it, recorded it, played it to an audience who all spontaneously burst into tears because it was so damn beautiful.  Wouldn’t need to shower when I got off stage.  Cleansed by all the people who love me.    Maybe I’ll use the line one day.   Put my arm around somebody’s shoulder or hold their hand and I say that line with so much compassion that they do open up.  Didn’t even need to sing it.  Maybe it’ll remind me of this moment as the rain pitter-patters on the cabin roof.   

 

Today the rain is a blessing,

yesterday the rain was a curse,

the weather can wallop a wallet,

or pickpocket a pretty old purse.

 

A snail travelled over my shoe last night.  It left a slimy trail.  I gave that snail a round of applause.  A rapturous round of applause.  I might have even whoop-whooped it.  Now that snail is the king of all of his snail mates.  He’s the boss snail.  Free drinks for him all night.  All his snail mates want to be the boss snail.  Tomorrow morning, I’ll find that everything I’ve ever owned has been slithered over and slimed.  A truly heroic night of snail travel will take place tonight.  Like the first man to reach the north pole.  Tonight will go down in snail history. 

 

Here he comes! 

Jesus of the snails!

Michelangelo of the snails!

Neil Armstrong of the snails!

Hail, King Snail!

 

Still trying to work out what I’m going to do in August, what I want to get from it.  I’m taking a sabbatical. The whole month off.  I might go travelling.  Do I like travelling?  Well, you don’t really like travelling.  You like writing.  Well, why don’t you write?   But I won’t meet new people if I spend the whole month writing.  You could write, then meet people, then writing about meeting those people.  Yes, I could do that.  What do you want to do?  What do you really really really want to do?  I don’t know.  Well, if you don’t know, I don’t know.  That’s helpful, thank you.  I’m going to think of a big crazy magical surreal idea and do that and then everyone will call me Tom the Decisive and Exceptionally Crazy Magical Surreal and also Talented One and I will swagger into every room with King Snail on my shoulder.  I can hear my Wikipedia page being written as we speak.  But now I must go to bed. 

A creep,  

A creep,

A creep,

Then a slow and steady descent into deep, deep sleep. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

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

Tom Wiggins: What are your first impressions of Michael Fassbender/Brandon's running style? Paul Whittaker: He's running nice, smooth and relaxed. He seems like he has a good amount of fitness and he is running well within himself in terms of pace.   TW: What improvements could he make to his running style? PW: The main improvement I'd make is his foot plant.  He lands heel first and this causes a 'breaking' effect when travelling forwards.  If he landed on his mid-foot/forefoot, this would be a much better for impact stress and propulsion going forward into the next running stride. TW: Regarding his speed, how many minutes per mile is he running? PW : I would say he is running approx 7-7.30 minutes per mile. TW:   What do you make of his stride lengths?  Is he overstriding/understriding? PW:  The actor is definitely overstriding in this clip.  It would help if his feet landed underneath and below his centre of gravit...
Post a Comment
Read more

Norman MacCaig: Poetry Hero

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...
3 comments
Read more

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...
Post a Comment
Read more