It’s looking rather full.
I’ve crammed in Sunday teatime television,
doctors’ receptionists who treat patients like The Enemy,
owners of yappy dogs no bigger than a gerbil,
the greatest hits of Simon and Garfunkel,
soggy bits of celery in soup,
anyone who believes armed conflict is a sane way of solving a dispute,
sentences that start, ‘With all due respect…’,
Margaret Thatcher’s voice,
people who draw quote marks in the air,
and poetry you need a bloody PhD to understand.
I’m going to shove it in the boot
of a clapped-out Ford Cortina
and drive at twenty miles an hour
down the middle of the road
to the scrap yard.
I’m going to crush it in the crusher
over and over
until it’s the size of a walnut.
I’m going to toss it into the ashtray
on the way home.
Under cover of darkness
I’m going to creep into my neighbour’s garden
and feed the scrunched-up morsel
to his goat.
And in due course
the contents of the bag
what they’ve always been
I’m going to smile.
(c) Helen Lewis 2006