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Packed Lunch What? What did you say?" "No I do not want Coke packed." "Make up a flask of coffee. Use the ploughman's pie in the fridge, it is tastier than scotch pie" "You can have a cake, I do not want one - thanks." Bob came though to the small dressing room. "What is it?" I asked again, "I am waiting to get into the cupboard to get the lunch basket." "Oh, sorry, I have to get some shoes." My feet were rammed into the soft brown suede shoes, the laces untied. I stomped back into the living room, shoved one arm into my jacket. I looked at the cats "Meow," said Tish. Joey looked through half closed eyes and yawned. The feather duster was grabbed from the hook in the pantry, falling over my laces I murmured an obscenity - two in fact, after banging my head on the shelf. Then I decided to put my arm into my jacket and tie my laces. Like a fiend I hurled round the room attacking everything in sight with the duster. Bob looked sky wards and sighed, resigned. Oh dear, Joey just about smashed the lamps off the side of the cupboard. "Are you ready?" came the long-suffering wail from the car. My bag, where is it? The cats look at me with disgust and closed their eyes. They have heard this pitiful plea before. They snuggle down on the couch, tuck their paws into their pockets and dismiss me. "Oh here it is." I scooped up the bag and stumbled out of the door and into the car. I hear another sigh. We bumped over the Sleeping Policemen on the road, turned right and there we were. Wow, there it was, the sea! White horses were smashing against the rocks, leaping and laughing in the wind. All were brave and fearless in their rush to reach the shore. The sky was palest blue, clouds were tinged with grey, hardly moving despite the brisk wind on the ground. As if a hand had stilled them. A flight of seagulls flew across my horizon, winging swiftly out of sight. We travelled further along the coast towards the small area called Gosforth. We parked on the coastal trail facing the sea. The white horses were still smashing onto the rocks along the side of the shore. The spume spitting and snarling, spilling on to the sand. Looking up I see the Fife Coast and Ben Lomond in the distance. The oil tankers greedily waiting to discharge their load guzzling into the waiting oil storage tanks. The seagulls see the signs of an easy meal in a food wrapper and dive squawking and screeching, each stealing a piece and swooping off. Flopping wings covered the air. Two women sat down on the rocks in front. One had dark red hair. She smoked, pulling on the cigarette greedily, inhaling in satisfaction. The other woman wore a knitted woollen hat covering her ears and hair. A man parked next to us, collar turned up, glasses on the end of his nose, reading the Scotsman newspaper. He bends down and turns his radio up. "Lets go," I said.If you are a poet or a writer with some work to share, would you like to send some of it to us? Email editor@anAurora.co.uk |