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?

Me neither.

My idea of happiness?

A strimmer and a bramble-choked path.