Those foolish things

Two shades of lipstick on a used French letter,
That dose of syphilis that just won’t get better,
The squeak of old bedsprings;
These foolish things
Remind me of you.

Guys, never play this or any other version of the song for your lady. Sure, it’s romantic, it’s poignant, it’s evocative, and it’s just the right mellow tune for a quiet night in.

But she’ll be thinking of the long ago boyfriend, and measuring him – or her best memories of him – against you. Trust me, it will be that moment that you fart, or scratch your bum, or belch up some stale beer.

I haven’t been able to write – apart from this blog; no problems there! – for over a month. I’ve had a handful of stories simmering away on the back burner, but none of them are quite cooked yet.

It must be the D-Day anniversary. I got to thinking about Normandy and that tranquil cemetery overlooking the sea, full of American boys.

My thoughts drifted towards some of those boys coming back. The last of that great generation, frail and silver-haired, a lifetime between them and those teenagers out to save the world.

What thoughts, what memories, what desires would be bubbling up as they looked on that wide beach, the peaceful villages, the green fields?

I think I’ve got something to write about now.

That worn-out sofa that we used to shag on,
That night you fucked me when I had the rag on,
And when I piss it stings;
These foolish things
Remind me of you.

Britni

life, travel , ,

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