DAYS AT THE BAY
I never go over to Eastbourne without remembering our English mistress at grammar
school. She used to love reading Katherine Mansfield out loud to the third form class,
tipping precariously back in her chair, crossed feet on the desk, relishing Kezia’s
attitude to life in her own peculiar way. Listening to her, we could imagine ourselves
spending genteel afternoons in the garden, drinking home -made lemonade, served with
fresh slices of lemon and a floating island of ice, then tip-toeing down the wide cool dark
hallway, for an afternoon nap. We couldn’t quite comprehend the reason for Linda’s
cool boredom and determined indifference towards her children, and we waited with
bated breath for Stanley Burnell to come home from work, to be met at the door by an
exasperated Aunt Beryl. In those days, when you went on holiday you caught the ferry
across the harbour. Now, we go there for a day trip, and spend time fossicking through
the shops. That’s where we picked up those quaint wooden latticed placemats, remember?
THE SCANDALOUS MATHEMATICS OF GRACE
You may wonder if there is any point
in turning up early.
If you stand around long enough,
he’ll touch your sinner’s heart with
an offer too good to refuse.
There’s something to be said for
taking up the option early,
but the grace must be catching.
If you grumble you haven’t understood.