Songwriter

Your lover has left you for your best friend. Motionless, you sit, nursing a cup of lukewarm tea. The rain beats an incessant rhythm at the window. You stare at the blank sheet of paper in front of you. As you do a tear drops on the empty page. Your dog, Mr Parp, comes over and nuzzles your leg. An old acoustic guitar is leant up again the wall. “How could she?” you cry. “How could she run off with Fat Face? I’ll never love another the way I loved her…” As the wind picks up the pace of the rain on the glass quickens. Your phone beeps. It’s a text message. “yr so vain you probably fink this text is about you”. It’s from her. “dont worry bout my stuff take it to a charity shop or sumfing innit. me and fatface gettin wed. lataz” Once more your eyes fill with tears. Mr Parp nuzzles further into your thigh and rests his paw on your leg. You stare out of the window and up at the trees, marvelling at how the leaves survive the rush of the wind. “It’s so beautiful,” you say. “Life is so bittersweet.” Glancing over at your guitar you extend a quivering hand towards the neck, only to withdraw it at the final moment, grab the remote control and start watching Trisha. Suddenly Mr Parp looks up at you and to your amazement, he speaks. “Listen bruv,” he says, “I don’t mean to be harsh or nufink but frankly if you can’t write a song now you never will.” You pat him on the head and switch over to Cash in the Attic.