Nibble My Trowel

This is the helicopter of your desire. I hold it in my hands and pray for rain. How that happens no-one can tell, especially when I have hidden the instructions. I keep my hand in my pocket at all times. I know too how the frog hops.

Shall I show you how to clean out your zebra enclosure, Deirdre? I shall let you become my zookeeper, and let you walk through my life with a bucket full of fresh fruit.

I know now what green means and I will always be your favourite adjustable spanner, right down to the last day of our spring viewing schedules.

Nibble my trowel.

Nibble my trowel.

I don't often ask how you name your own particular Tuesdays, especially not when it is Friday again, so don't ask me to dress up and pretend to be a whippet again, especially not now, now my thighs are so sore.

Let us pickle eggs together, naked in the moonlight. I shall always remember how you held my spatula, and the place where you kept all the interesting chins.

I shall vow, from this day forward, only to wear the clothing that bears the sign of the unwelcome Christmas gift, for I have seen what happens to useless Fridays.