I Lost My Sense Of Fun


I lost my sense of fun: it bounded
straight through a true blue gate,
corpsed a bystander and hit the high
road on a high note. Where it landed,
the ground was excitable, bubbling free:
my fun's trajectory seemed to shoot
straight into parachutes of mist.
I sat. Perhaps, then, I'd really lost

my mate hilarity, the talent for truffling
conversations for a lucky gag
squandered in another's sterling speech:
I'd be reduced to listening, to snaffling
laughter from books. I was in a lurch
never imaginable, had the shag rug
whipped from beneath my toes. I turned,
pelted with depressives. Mug. I mooned,

nursed an unspeakable pint in the pub,
gave my nervous heels a nasty kicking
and recited some stray Dowson (discovered
chewing some salt'n'vinegar sob
in the lounge bar). I even delivered
sermons to barmaids, was sent packing
to the 'family room' where a nasty squawk
of toddlers was playing pool. I took

the easy option, and left my sleever
slopping the counter, mumbled excuse
to the horse-brass, and stumbled towards home.
You know that feeling when you have a
presentiment? That, although the game
is stale, and someone's rammed your face
with a flat iron, there's something at work
behind your brain? I sensed a lark

hiding in the darkened hedgerows, ready
to bark my ankles, prat me to the paving,
and, sure enough, mooching a short
cut to the cottage, I heard a bawdy
chuckle and the titter of trick feet.
My sense of fun! It was mangy, starving
but full of raring fettle, light of head.
By midnight we were huddled up in bed.

From the book Robinson Crusoe's Bank Holiday Monday