Go to Japan, Go to Ikea, Eat Hotdog, and Buy a Blue Bag

I have been feeling definitively crusty, if not irresolute and tardy, and, on occasion, downright lazy, these last few days. Perhaps I am suffering from an overdose of karate, or the effects of jet lag, but I doubt it. No, the real reason is probably because I entered some poems for a competition, and did not get shortlisted, and so now I am malingering, moping around the house like a humiliated cur with its tail between its hindlegs, its ears hung. Each time I wistfully pick up my fountain pen to scratch out another poem I end up kicking an old tin can in the empty backyard I call my brain, forlornly trying to dig up one or two words that I might twist into the semblance of a verse. Even drink, that faithful friend, has foresaken me, leaving me bitter and full of remorse…

Or is it because Bayern thrashed Manchester United this week?

But seriously, being beaten, or not being accepted by anyone for anything can be a knock down if you take it to heart (and I’m a sensitive guy, especially when it comes to me), but there’s nothing else for it than to take it on the chin, get back up again, learn from your mistakes, and try again. So, if anyone from Man-U is reading this – you know what to do – arses are not for sitting on!

In one of my comments last week, I mentioned how absurd it was going to Ikea in Japan. Globalization is a strange phenomena – a little shop in Sweden quietly usurping the world furniture market, or, as I saw on television the other day, Harlem drug dealers telling the world what to wear on their feet… But, I am not going to go off on one now. Instead I wrote a little poem about visiting Ikea in Japan – you can read it here.