But if tomorrow wasn't just another day
Plap! The rain seeps through the roof and
Plap! The water drips into the bowl and
Tap Tap Tap! The words form on the paper
Rumbling and rattling the room vibrates as by the train passes and stops then the
tapping as plip plap and plopping goes on as the rumbling continues, an empty
can labelled with Heinz Baked Beans sailing, out through the window and through
the air and through the rain across the road and falls to the ground, lost in the weeds,
short of the train, short of the cutting as the train rattles on and the rumbles subside
and the man swears.
Up in the garret, high over the road, above the tracks and impervious train, the man,
the literary genius, his thoughts interrupted, swears.
Plap! The ceiling leaks into the bowl. The tapping resumes its counterpoint and
continues to the end of the chapter tap plap plap tap plap tap tap tap tap plap.
After the rain, the sun: look down in the street. See! There is Wendy, four flights
Now here comes Heidi along the road, walking home, bag full of bottles and beans.
Wine for the wild party, beans for eating, bottles to throw.
Wendy enters the house, lengths clear of Heidi who now accelerates along the home straight.
But what's this? It's the landlady! Yes, little old landlady moves in on the right,
hurrying to intercept Heidi and they're neck and neck racing to the doorstep and I think
it's going to be yes it is, it's a dead heat! And there's going to be trouble here.
It looks like they're arguing about something.
Landlady wades in with a claim for twenty days' back rent and this is sure to get Heidi
going, a spirited filly this one, impetuous when roused and she's certainly getting angry
right now. And she's reaching into her bag for something: it's a wine bottle and I think
it's it is indeed, it's a knockout. Landlady is out cold on the steps and the victor
enters the house in triumph.
My, what a contest!
From out of the mouth came forth sounds. And the sounds formed into words; musical, poetic,
inspiring to the ear of the literary genius.
I see you couldn't be bothered to tidy the room.
(The wet-look strip show begins with a coat hung, dripping, on a hook)
Literary geniuses don't tidy rooms.
But their wives throw bottles. (This one also throws shoes). Written much?
(Socks laid across a chair back)
Two or three pages and a few notes.
You'll not change the world much at this rate. (Soaking trousers peeled off wet legs and
neatly folded over the chair)
Am I supposed to care about that?
You tell me. You're the literary genius. (Breasts fall free from wet wool pulled over
head, dropped in a corner)
I ate a tin of beans.
I see no empty tin. Where can you have put it? (Off come the panties, full-frontal nudity).
Not in the waste bin? You're never that tidy. (Lies on the bed now, stretching and sighing)
I threw it at a train.
You'll get into trouble, throwing things out of the window. (Rises and fetches a clean
towel from the drawer, rubs dry her damp body and lies down again, towel between head and
It's all part of the image for us l.g.'s. Anyway it missed - landed in the weeds in the
What on earth did you throw it for anyway? (Lying on her back, staring at the ceiling)
The Muse was upon me. I was inspired, in full flow, words tumbling from the typewriter
like rivers of gold
Then this bloody train comes along and fucks up the rhythm.
'Twas a futile gesture of anger and defiance at the destruction of Art by the Machine Age.
Hoo Ray! Apollo would be proud of you, if he hadn't died with your woolly romanticism.
I suppose if some cat gets its paws cut up on the lid, it's just an unfortunate casualty
in the war between culture and the Philistine? (Stretches, then relaxes, legs apart, body
warm, soft and inviting) None of that. I'm hot, sticky and tired and I want a piss.
(Brushing aside the advances of the literary genius, walking out of the room and down
the stairs. Left behind, he is despondent but smiles on hearing Wendy exclaim in exasperation)