I could never decide on anything.
Should I go for a swim or spend the day in?
Maybe go for a walk or ring Stephan and talk?
So I took a look at a self-help book
And although I knew I was indecisive before, now, I’m not so sure!
Half Brother
'I'm going to Devon to see my half-brother,' said Jason.
Jill raised an eyebrow. 'You never said you had one. Different Mothers?'
'No. Shark Attack!'
Glamping
I opened my eyes, and to my surprise
The sky was filled with stars.
A wondrous sight, a cloudless night,
and Saturn aligned with Mars.
But something was wrong; something had gone,
and I howled a deep lament.
What a fool I’d been; why hadn’t I seen.
Somebody nicked my tent.
An Authors lament
I am a children’s author and am very proud of that.
I have gore-blimey clothes, but I wear an author’s hat.
It’s not for want of trying that I’m poorer than you’d think.
My office is the crawl space beneath the kitchen sink.
It’s not a lack of hard work, I’m sure that you can see.
But everyone around me thinks authors work for free.
The Tree
Sergeant Tom Smith squinted at the angry sun blazing high in the distant sky. Sweat boiled on his flesh and soaked his blue serge uniform. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and any attempt to swallow scratched his throat. He breathed in short irregular gasps. Fine, pale sand was everywhere. It shifted in rolling dunes, clung to his hair, and stung his eyes.
He flopped to the ground exhausted, pulled a flask from his belt, unscrewed the top, and dribbled warm water onto his cracked lips. It had no effect. A tall, broad man trudging up the slope ahead stopped and turned.
‘We need to keep going, Smith. We have to warn the fort. You can’t give up now.’
‘Aw, leave it out, Captain. We’re done for. The food’s gone AWOL, and we’ve not enough water to drown a bloody flea.’
‘Giving up is not an option, Sergeant. You are a Legionnaire; behave like one.’ The tangy scent of a bright English morning floated in the scorching air. The captain stood alert. ‘What’s that smell? It can’t be, surely!’
Smith sat up and sniffed. ‘Strike me, it’s bacon. Lovely sizzling bacon.’ He hauled himself up, adjusted the kit bag on his back, and stomped after the captain, who was already scrambling through crumbling sand. They both reached the top of the dune and peered over the crest.
On the desert plain below, a single tree stood in front of a pool of shimmering water. The tree was a mass of lush green leaves, and thin pink strips dangled from the branches.
Smith looked at the captain. ‘Is it a mirage?’
The captain stroked his firm, bristly jaw. ‘To my knowledge, a mirage does not smell.’
‘Then it is a blooming bacon tree?’
‘There’s only one way to find out, Sergeant.’
The two men skidded, tumbled and careered down the sandy slope, then raced across the plain toward the sparkling water.
The tree shuddered violently as if hit by a storm. Its branches lowered with a gut-wrenching groan and slithered noisily along the ground until impenetrable brambles surrounded the two men.
‘My god, this is no bacon tree,’ screamed the captain, ‘It’s a ham-bush!’