tho’ in this case less dramatic than the thespian’s
way of playing it; we are relaxed for a coffee chat
and there’s no agendas, not yet anyway.
All early morning starts are buggers you complain
there’s no point trying to re-knead it; the rest gets
no chance to rise properly before the day’s ovens
already at temperature and baking it.
Good analogy - so where did we go wrong, was it
hitting the sack too early? Yawning your head off
suggests a lapsed-beyond-repeal attention span
and we know comatose chat is rarely two-way.
But the evening’s TV diversion wasn’t really up to
scratch was it, not that I’m addicted to anything in
it but live Rugby and you’re in a two-way blind as
whether to watch Netflix or FoxHD programs.
So you wander off to bed bored and sleep like a
log before 8 pm don’t you, waking only later as I
arrive, mumble platitudes about nothing, roll on
your back and snore sonorously.
Yet I see the energy you wake up with and cringe,
how in the name of perfidy do you do it? Its a feral
thing isn’t it? You have never accepted relevance
of domesticity and scheduled lying-in-bed.
That has a ring to it, though in truth the sack’s an
impressive spot for a bit of sport, n’ a dawn romp
takes me fancy more’n eclectic debate on who’s
turn it is to make the coffee. Waddya say?
Here’s your cup sport, so relax, enjoy the break!
© 12 September 2013, I. D. Carswell