Just for fun. I thought that it would be amusing to add this nasty little bit of scribbling that I wrote years ago.
Just to show that I am not always sweetness and light...
Yes, Steve, you will be surprised to learn that even I have feet of clay.
They bound ribbons round my temples
And the air was sweet with the scent
Of the crushed flowers that lay
Beneath our feet.
Triumphal returning from where
Sullen crowds watched as I rode;
Hair thickly matted on those temples
Blood and sweat mingled,
Coursing down my face
And the stench of death
From a country prostrate
Beneath my heel.
They say that when we offered
Thanks to the Gods
And smoke hung heavy over
The city not yet awake,
A black bitch that had preceded
Us into battle turned upon her mate
And killed him.
Then with the blood still on
Her muzzle, she whelped.
More by this Author
India, 1946. Independence looms. Day in the life of a Chota Sahib. But this young boy doesn’t realise that he is the baby who will be thrown out with the bathwater. He’s Indian, but the wrong colour.
A fairly lighthearted (though basically bitter) retelling of the history of having a room converted into a bathroom. With no offence meant to men on horses, the builders were a crowd of evil cowboys.
A somewhat less than learned attempt to explain Restless Legs Syndrome and possible ways of diminishing its effects. The writer is a sufferer, yet can describe the condition with some little humour.