I have been reading Stephen Fry’s book on poetry, The Ode Less Travelled, which is a lot better than its title.
So tonight, as Anna settled down to sleep after another heatwave day, when she felt faint and Daisy and I had to carry her upstairs, I knocked off this villanelle. (Don’t know what a villanelle is? Then you need to read Stephen Fry’s book.)

You’re not the person that you were, they say.
You glower as if we’re not really there,
But which of us is at the end of the day?

You stand for hours and then walk away
With a cruel smile, and it seems unfair
You’re not the person that you were, they say.

You tear the edging of your negligee,
You’re not much pleased with the things you wear
But which of us is at the end of the day?

None of us want to get old and grey.
Like us you want to stay just as fair,
But you’re not the person that you were, they say.

You’d like to be sexy, young and gay,
And playful again, without a care,
But which of us is at the end of the day?

It’s sad that you’ve forgotten the way
You used to have such love to share.
You’re not the person that you were, they say.
But which of us is at the end of the day?


Well, it may not be that brilliant, but it beats doing yet another bloody Sudoku.