Tag Archives: man

The other man

“I say.” said the man.

“I say!” said the other man.

“No you didn’t.” exclaimed┬áthe man.

“I bloody did.” replied the other man.

“I sayed first.” said the man.

“Well I said.” objected the other man, “And besides, ‘sayed’ isn’t even a word.”

The man took a deep breath. The other man did the same.

“Look,” said the man, “I’m going to go get a coffee and I’d really rather you just, you know, did your own thing from now on.”

The other man thought for a moment.

“Black?” he asked.

“What?” puzzled the man.

“Black coffee?” asked the other man.

“As a matter of fact, yes.” the man said, rather abruptly.

“hmmm,” mused the other man, “I used to have milk in my coffee. I don’t any more.”

“Since when?” asked the man, before realising he really didn’t care for the answer.

“Just then.” answered the other man.

The man rolled his eyes and sighed. It was going to be a long afterlife.


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Descent into madness

Who is Andy S?

Is he a soldier, a mason, a man in a dress?

Who is this mystery man who you speak to?

Does he write, does he dance? Is he good at Sudoku?

Who is the chap that sits in your phone?

Can he speak French, make you laugh or listen t’your moans?


What does he look like, this Andrew Sierra?

Tall dark and handsome? Or maybe a carer

of small woodland creatures, or maybe a nan,

on a little wooden boat off the coast of Japan.

Trawling for spoons in an ocean of knives

is he single or gay, does he have seven wives?


Who is this fellow that causes infinite sadness?

That opens the way to my descent into madness?

Why does he take you away from the now?

From the here, from the me, does he give you his vow?

The same that I give you, night after night

as the sky opens up and I step into light.


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Martyn was a lean man, both in appearance and with the truth. Though he was easy-going and approachable it was wise never to ask about or attempt to enter his garage.

The neighbours often spoke about his penchant for DIY, and in particular his wonderful patio. It was noted that he must be a perfectionist of sorts due to the number of times he had relaid it over the last year.

Martyn’s wife was a forgiving sort, her frizzy hair a metaphor for the way she approached her life. One morning at 2am, having broken the unwritten rule of never drinking orange squash before bed, she awoke to find Martyn in the bathroom on his knees meticulously scrubbing the floors and walls.

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