A poem made out of the headlines to Adrian Chiles’s articles in the Guardian
I recently saw something
in a petrol station toilet
Southbound on the M1
that I can never unsee.
I spent an afternoon
writing my own name.
It was lovely
until I started overthinking it.
What is an app?
I honestly have no idea.
After a meeting that went on for hours,
I was finally told what it was all about.
I was being interviewed
for a job at MI5.
Do I really need to drink
almost 5 litres of water a day?
I haven’t got the bladder for it.
I almost downloaded a pebble-identifying app,
but some stones should be left unturned.
Would you pay £15,000 for a portrait of me?
My idea of happiness?
A strimmer and a bramble-choked path.