The 6:17

 I wrote the poem last autumn. It’s inspired by a sight on the Rye. Since I don't have a photo of scuds of leaves, here's one of a maple tree caught in a last blaze of colour.

The 6:17

under a lemony sky

a litter of leaves lay

on the green

till a sudden breeze

raised them from their

recumbency

to send them rushing

like commuters racing for

the 6:17

Shock! Smoking doesn't kill!

I can imagine the scenario. Lying in her sickbed, the woman lights up her favourite brand of cigarette, a John Player Special, inhales, turns to the family and says: ‘You better put on my grave that it wasn’t smoking that killed me.’ The family take her at her word. I wish to thank her and them for giving us a laugh, albeit a rueful one. And for leaving us with a puzzle. What was it that killed her?

Bagging some happiness

You won’t find them in Waitrose or Morrison’s, but you can buy them at Khan’s Supermarket in Peckham: cheery tomatoes. Just seeing the creative spelling is enough to make me cheerful.

Buttons and Cinderella

At five pence each, these buttons are a bargain for any Cinderella out there wanting to jazz up an outfit before her fairy godmother arrives with a complete ball-gown revamp, which, in turn will nab her a Prince Charming and then, since he’ll take care of her for the rest of her regal life, the cost of buttons will no longer be a concern.