All Poets Are Idlers, Even If All

Working Is Bad Enough In The Winter, But In The Summer It Can Become Completely Intolerable. Stuck In Airless Offices, Every Fibre Of Our Being Seems To Cry Out For Freedom. We're Reminded Of Being Stuck In Double Maths While The Birds Sing Outside.

Embrace The Faff. Stare Out Of The Window. Bend Paperclips. Stand In The Middle Of The Room Trying To Remember What You Came Downstairs For. Pace. Drum Your Fingertips. Move Papers Around. Hum. Look At The Garden.

When You Go For A Walk, Take Seeds With You, Poppies, Rainbow Chard, Rocket. Plant Them Among The Weeds In Patches Of Wasteland. See What Happens.

We Bore Ourselves In Order To Earn Money That We'll Later Spend On Trying To De-bore Ourselves

In This Age Of Getting What You Want And Getting It Now, The Simple Pleasure Of Browsing Is Often Forgotten.