The Songstone

But there was a problem. I was living with Dani and had been for over three years. Now the relationship had the sour aftertaste of too many rows, of too many things said that could not be taken back. I was to move out after Christmas, so we had agreed weeks before I met Michela, but Dani was determined that my moving out was only to be a new phase in the relationship, a chance for us to regroup and rethink, while I knew in my heart that it was the end. It was the jealousy, you see, the snarls I would get even for smiling at another woman, the snooping in my computer's  files, the searching out of any detail that might smell of treachery. I felt trapped, and the greener her eyes became the more I was repelled. Michela knew this, for I hid nothing of it from her, and the holding hands became hugs, and many sweet words of care. She had an ex herself, whom she saw occasionally, but only as friends, she assured me; the spark between them had died, and she was going to Canada to see an

There is a shitty, crooked dwarf within the Élysée; greasy, sweaty palms by night and platform shoes by day. This scumbag bleeds his country dry; takes bribes from millionaires and when the paysans ask him, 'Why?' 'Gippos! Fault's all theirs!' 'Let's clean the country of this dross, woman, child and man! We'll make la patrie  pure again!' (It worked for old Pétain). Laval's ghost, and Gobineau's crack their sides with glee. Liberté, fraternité... (but just for you and me). You wicked, vicious, little man. And France, you're guilty too; you sit and stuff your cheese and wine, 'Alors? Et qui êtes-vous?' You'll strike for pay, the working week, the rights close to your heart. Manifester pour les autres? You couldn't give a fart. No more brie , no, not for me. You fascists pay a price: contempt and bile, scorn and hate - you Vichy-loving lice. © Simon M Hunter 2010

Outside my bedroom window the year's last rose is fading.