Sometimes I long for the solitary life. Parents long gone no kids no wife. Sister somewhere in Australia. Never did keep in touch. Sex no more than a how-do-ye-do. With a copy of Tit-Bits in the loo. Socially a bit of a failure. Nice not to have to try too much. A Solitary Life. A life of small horizons. Dull as the pewter sky over North West Eleven. A serious hobby in the garden shed. Model trains or soldiers in lead. Join the suburban boffins of Britain. Experts on trivial things. And holidays in the Yorkshire Dales. Or cycling tours of the North of Wales. Unenvious of those flea-bitten. On continental flings. A Solitary Life. A life of small horizons. Dull as the pewter sky over North West Eleven. Excitement comes by subtle means. The satisfaction of routines. Small revenges at the office. Smug little victories. You work on your pallor complexion like paste. Like the grey defeat on an inmates face. A life spent adding losses and profits. Resigning by degrees. A Solitary Life. A life of small horizons. Dull as the pewter sky over North West Eleven. And come to the end sad and alone. A steady reliable tumour you’ve grown. From selfish years while all your peers. Have stressfully jogged to health. In life you always were quite numb. And foggier now you soon succumb. In drab St. Barts on the new by-pass. Death overcomes by stealth. A Solitary Life. A life of small horizons. Dull as the pewter sky over North West Eleven