Tall Tales When Amy Winehouse died, Conix was distraught with grief. ‘I was with her a few days ago, and she seemed fine.’
This was typical of him. Making out he’d been anywhere of importance when news broke. When questioned about how he could have possibly been with her, he looked up from his tears in disbelief as if to say How dare you not believe me! And then very calmly said: I went to Camden Town last week on a uni trip.
Everyone got used to Conix’s tall tales. And went along with them. They were so far and few between that his tall tales actually became entertaining as he added more and more unlikely details to what had happened.
No one ever believed him even when he was telling the truth.
The birds are back in the square and my flat cat would love to attack for a dare as they swoop from the skies to the tree. But he’d find it nigh on impossible to be fair to make any kind of capture or kill in his lair even if out on the streets. No chance of doing his devilry.
The birds are starlings. The poor dear darlings. Mediterranean magpies on rooftops watch and crank it up a notch for my flat cat that would love to try taking them on too but he’d probably come off worse and die?
I’m on my balcony quite serene with a bottle of white watching the scene. The chances of murder as slim as my cat’s though in my head there’s imminent attacks.
For example, this very day and the washing machine technician who didn’t bother to come. You kept me waiting despite the frigging appointment for four hours, son. I’ve been without a washing machine three weeks. It’s under guarantee and, but for hand washing, my clothes would reek.
Meanwhile, the birds are making a racket in the tree. My flat cat has gone to sleep off his disappointment in dismay. And I’m left having to chase up that technician between a rhyme like third degree or foul play.
Finally, what was there from its beginnings was clearer. How the coldness had been hidden behind an hysterically hyped up veneer. A scientist opportunist conning peers. A philanthropist grave-digger snatching moneyed sneers.
I’m not going to judge lest I be judged. I’m not going to hold a grudge lest they begrudge. Nor march to the next century to just trudge. Nor pose for a still frame where to budge Might mean blurring a Victorian image into muddy Georgian sludge.