Saturday, 10 September 2016


  A hyphenated, body warmer old lady once referred to me as a catamite. It reminded me of my dad referring to sex as twanging.  My singing teacher once had to remind me that in Down by the Sally Gardens, the poet's love is just a flibbertigibbet of a girl wandering around in her bare feet.  'The tone you're using sounds like it's all a bit muckily Freudian.'   

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