The seven tweets of creation

Day 1. Heaven: done. Earth: done. Bit dark around here, though. Made a switch and flicked it. On: day. Off: night. Good.

Day 2. Water everywhere. Booooring. So I drew a line: sky above, water below. Both my fave colour, blue (clever reflection trick). Good.

Day 3. Busy day. Made land for some contrast. Spent rest of day on plants and trees. Took ages but finally cracked fruit/seed system. Good.

Day 4. Fun day playing with fire. Made great big baubles to hang in the sky. (Moon not actually lit – another neat reflection trick.) Good.

Day 5. Productive day. Birds for the sky and fish, mammals, etc for the sea. Not sure about sharks; will see. Loving the dodos, tho’. Good.

Day 6. Got up early. Animals done by lunchtime. Decided I need a manager, so I made man. Looks a bit like me. Seems up for the job. Good.

Day 7. Knackered. Got up late, chilled all day. Kinda run out of things to do round here, but have idea for new project. I call it ‘Mars’…

McGONAGALL’S HAIKU

Most happy burgh of Dundee
That William Topaz McGonagall
Your greatest bard should be

The seminar that became a party

I flew in by air
bringing the bag of tricks
and a suitcase full of books.

Jamie was already there
strumming the guitar,
dispensing the kindness
of caritas and amor
and a whole night’s chorus of songs
for the smiles on a summer’s night.

Against all the odds
Anna came first, bearing a gift
of serenity,
fresh as a winter aconite
after haring down the motorway,
carrying the thought of a growing pine.

In her wake came Paul, anything but solemn,
bringing what was least expected;
a troupe of Cuban dancers
who swirled and twirled and heeled
like doctors used to do,
leaving Erik Stolt bemused.

Came Lotta, came Brian,
trailing sheets to fall in love with,
Lotta sliding into the sauna,
emerging later, oh wonder of wonders,
with mouth full of ice cubes
that she transferred with a kiss.

Brian swooned with pleasure,
dedicated to exceeding the measure,
swimming through the wanton wonder
of words that bring jouissance
to Johnny and Maia
and flowers that he cast at our feet.
Mikael drove up, tyres screeching,
at the front of a Volvo fleet
bedecked with exotic garlands,
while unbuckling his seat belt, leaping
from the car still speeding
and then screaming “I’ve got it,
I’ve got it, this is the word”
and the word was sommerlov.
Joining him by airplane,
from a town far to the northlands,
came Vitek and Frederica spraying coke cans.

And William was there,
still electric from the elverket
and he jumped down
turned around and picked a bale of cotton
and he jumped down
turned around and picked a bale a day
with sparks of triboluminescence
being struck from the mint
inside his mouth
while Mark came at the head
of the party’s most surprising sight,
the massed brass and drums
of the Ohio State Marching Band,
leader M Drake, virtuoso of the saxophone,
resplendent in flowing locks, a uniform
of rainbow colours
and a hat, such a hat to imagine,
that he wore with a flourish
to a fanfared procession
of dumper trucks sounding their horns.

But last there stood Torsten,
slipped in unnoticed,
unveiling the most voluptuous meal
which he offered with love
and delivered with relish.

So everything was there,
on our common ground,
all the stories of the world, and everyone
had gathered and listened to the swell of water
so we all shouted, drops in the ocean,
we declaimed it to the heavens –
“What a swell party that was!”

Take a busload of A List revenants on an outing to your average UK retail park and doubtless you’d make certain assumptions. Proust hording a score of memory sticks. Milton lost for hours and hours and hours in a corner of Comet feeling his way through the Van Morrison canon on his I-pod Touch. Then, down the aisle, Attila, negotiating in his inimitable way, for the latest firewall and ant-virus package.

Across the parking lot, where Francis Bacon is queuing for a Hot Dog (no onions), de Sade is perplexed by M&S until his eyes alight on the sushi with the neat square packs of rice wrapped in that leatherette seaweed. ‘Simply divine.’ Next but one, Napoleon is mesmerised by Boots and muttering ‘trois pour le prix de deux’ as if it might rise into a new rallying crescendo. But actually his mention of ‘la crème de la creme’ is, this time, not a military reference.

What you wouldn’t expect is Beau Brummell sauntering around TK Maxx. ‘Marvellous.’ Greta Garbo, yes, whom he doesn’t recognise but does like the shades. Of course, in this imagined time warp, he would have missed out on a lot of fashions. ‘Catching up’ might be his, quite legitimate, excuse. And talking of excuses, John Calvin is looking at a pair of underpants with his name aligned with that German derogative and is reaching for that Bible-black flame-thrower he just bought from the little pulpit-like tobacconist run by the man with ‘the saddest eyes in Christendom’. ‘Ah, finally, it’s good to be alive.’ Post-Reckoning. What a treat. If only such fun was to be had.