The shouts of school children carried by a gentle breeze. A fat fly buzzing against the window pane. A passenger jet somewhere overhead. Hmm, wasn't it.
You wake up in the morning, you've got to read all the Sunday papers, the kids are running round, you've got to mow the lawn, wash the car, and you think "Sunday, bloody Sunday!"
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There’s always been Ethel
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Very good Bertha - there’s definitely a future for you in the fire escape trade
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You wake up in the morning, you've got to read all the Sunday papers, the kids are running round, you've got to mow the lawn, wash the car, and you think "Sunday, bloody Sunday!"
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Like Larkin if he had a lobotomy.
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Shopgirls parading their talent in the shimmering heat.
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Little fluffy clouds shout
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The morning sun catching on the gossamer cobweb sparkling in the corner of Matron’s office.
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A faint brown streak where the cultural prevalence of arse jets would leave not a sign.
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The ubiquity of inked flesh a moral indictment of Albion.
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Westfield tarts showing out at weekends.
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Camels mooing to you in sympathy with a fellow beast of burden.
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Moved back to blighty,
Still terminally alone,
Pretend car purchase
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I do wish my acolytes had my gifts.
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Wish my acolytes
Existed but alas
They don't, I'm alone
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my memory of the autumn days primary school song is that it was better than this
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