Bulletin #3


Twelve boys and their teacher have been sat in a dark, hot cave for over a week. At first they were on their own, unsure if they would ever see another human face again before the waters rose. Now they have a steady stream of visitors, heads and shoulders popping up from the waters beneath them like underworld spirits having a nose at the people that are still made of meat. The visitors have brought food, news, blankets, lighting and a camera that beams their image to billions of eyeballs. Nobody is sure how the boys and their teacher will leave the cave. There’s talk of pumps draining the waters, iron lungs and an upcoming monsoon. If they make it out then fame awaits them in all its fickleness and cruelty.


Danny Dyer is on his way to Love Island. I don’t watch Love Island and cast no aspersions at those that do. It seems to be another method of hating millennials, especially if you are also a millennial. It is an island of love that none of us can reach and so we must hate it. None of us can reach it but Danny Dyer can. The host of Deadliest Men is on his way to the island of love. Will we end up hating him too? In wasn’t much of a fan of Danny Dyer until I saw him say nice things to his pretend gay son on Eastenders. That was when I saw the love in him. Will he have to battle his way through a phalanx of cherubs with flaming arrows when he touches upon the shores of Love Island? Or will they let him pass, remembering the tender words that he shared with his pretend gay son on Eastenders and more importantly, will they ever let him leave?


Today I returned with my daughter to Audiology. Last time they managed to persuade me that she had hearing loss in one ear. I believed this for two months before another test showed that she didn’t. I turns out that she could hear the beeping noises emitting from the tiny white headphones, she just couldn’t be arsed to respond to them. I addressed her from her left side for those whole two months. In the past few days I’ve caught a dirty cold and my own eustachian tubes are blocked up. As the little one aced all the hearing tests I kept on trying to solicit some advice for my own condition. They brushed me off politely. They didn’t even take the bait when I kept saying “I’m sorry, could you say that again?”


The anaemic grass of the Horniman gardens
casts a pale yellow periphery to the tos, fros and dalliances.
Most have crammed into the shade of the museum
where the overstuffed walrus lords over his styrofoam iceberg
and seahorses mate within narrow tanks.

Outside, I spot at least five pensioners eating ice cream,
each doing so with delicacy and finesse –
no dripping extremities or lopsided edges,
the neat, tapered flurries slowly diminish
amid a steady display of bites, licks and twists.
Decades of experience have gone into this.

And finally…

As the future diminishes, it’s easier to twist into shape. It is like a garden whose perimeter shrinks each time we sleep. The lawn is cut before elevenses and the ivy that once covered vast stone walls now clings to a wooden trellis with the tips of its vines. The past though is a jungle, that even pushes into deserts as the days pass. The things that wanted to eat you are still there, waiting patiently.

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