Clocks they go forward
clocks they go back
and sometimes it’s hard
just to keep track
I woke up this morning
with one hour less
where that one went to
is anyone’s guess
I’ll wait till October
to see its return
Just leave our bloody clocks alone
is all that I yearn
‘What was that?’
‘Mmm?’
‘That bang.’
Dragged from a dream involving Kier Starmers on bicycles dressed as clowns, I groaned.
‘Go and look,’ she said, kneeing me off the bed.
I stumbled to the door, listening. Silence. Then, bravely, I Chuck-Norrised my way through every room, lights ablaze.
Nothing.
Only the kitchen left.
A smell.
Light on.
Fear.
‘What is it?’ she yelled.
My doom, I thought.
Her pristine floor drowned beneath a wine puddle seeping from the fridge door — the one I’d promised to fix.
From the bottle she’d told me not to force the cork back into.
“What do you mean you have no words? You’re a writer. Find some. 99 to be exact.”
I’d made it difficult for myself. A week of 99-word stories and now the muse demanded more.
He sat there tapping his fingers on the desk, his face and neck red. It was Sunday. I said I wanted a day off.
“A … day … off?”
He slammed his hand on the desk and his fountain pen jumped. I grabbed it and stabbed down on his hand. He screamed.
“Ouch! Ouch!”
“I’m going for a drink,” I said. “99 words on Monday.”
My Words, My World 