A DRY SPELL

You'll know I’m crying, if it rains today
All my tears falling, washing away
Washing away those memories
Memories of how it used to be
Why you laughed then walked away
Why there was nothing left for you to say
Have you been waiting?
Anticipating
Contemplating
The day
That I would wash away?

The light through the window shone it's cold eleven o'clock shaft. the unaccustomed brightness splintering my thin, insipid, dreamless sleep. The radio alarm plays a song as morbid as the wallpaper, the bedroom smells damp, not a particularly unpleasant smell, just a cold Christmas with no money smell. I hobble and scratch my way to the lavatory, why do people, when they have used the luxury quilted Labrador friendly paper to excess, object to putting new paper rolls into the posy little Portuguese tile holder especially designed for the job and brought back from Real San Antonio with tender loving bloody care. The past week had been worsening; .nothing wrong but nothing right sort of week ... Just a dry spell. Everyone, and in particular myself, was on edge, scratchy, and in deep dark melancholy. You say to yourself each morning there will be no maudlin ways not today you will walk smartly put a spring in your step a bush up my tail. Let’s start the day with a will, run a bath, shave, and change your clothes. Wear some thing smartest, the sort of thing which will bring the response, oh aye? And where you going? All dressed up. The fact is you’re not 'all dressed up' you have just changed from chronically casual to standard dated, thus giving the unaccustomed and inexperienced the illusion of sartorial elegance. Right then, you’re out of the bath you dress in shirt trousers, have you ever given a thought to why you are fatter when you eat less, anyway you struggle into your trousers. After dressing you go down stairs to meet the morning.

Dear God... It’s the smell that gets me, it’s the acrid smell of stale tobacco, food and sleeping Alsatian. It never ever smells like that at night when you’re watching golf, imbibing, and relaxing with a occasional cigarette. Cleanup, open windows feed the dog, get down now go and lay in your bed that’s a good girl

Get down dog...,
Get down you bitch...
Enough,now piss off.

The dog's cowering, the cat is nervously watching us through the glazed doors. Boil the water, let’s have a coffee that's a sound idea ...And toast, that’s right start as you mean to go on. No milk, oh! I don’t believe this, neither does the cat, god I hate black coffee... So does the cat.

If you are starting the day off on a proper footing then its important to begin with a breakfast, it sets you up. The toaster refuses to engage, the plastic slide long since disappeared, however easily overcome by sticking the edge of a small pointed
knife down into the slide slot. Alas, it had given up the ghost, small green and blue sparks sparked angrily. Well you don’t deserve a good home attempt to bite the hand that feeds you would you , I open the window throwing the ancient contraption into the garden narrowly missing a hunched garden gnome.
Soon I 'm joined for breakfast by others all clammering, would you believe it, for toast. Yes! I bloody well do know where it is, I finally admitted after an onslaught of questioning. It's in the garden rockery, beside the short bearded fellow, under the damp stone.