A puppy called puberty

On the running front I am back at it and knocking out modest weeks of 30 – 40 miles a week for the past few weeks. My good knee is now my bad knee and it is ‘visit the physio’ sore for the first two miles of most runs and then it’s fine. I’m listening to it more than I would have previously but I am still, by normal person standards, running myself into an injury.

Don’t forget, you heard it here first.

Now, the meat and two veg of this blog:

Poetry.

On New Year’s Day 1997 I was catching the bus from Paris to London with my ol’doll (future wife) and at a motorway stop somewhere in Kent I picked up a copy of the English Independent (we have our own version in Ireland, hence the clarification).

I still have that copy of the paper and I kept it because of the daily poem on page 5.

The poem is by a man called Adrian Mitchell who is now since gone to his reward but like the Cremation of Sam McGee or the Shooting of Dan McGrew, it is as poetry should be:

A Puppy Called Puberty/A Dog Called Elderly

It was like keeping a puppy in your underpants

A secret puppy you weren’t allowed to show to anyone

Not even your best friend or worst enemy

You wanted to pat him stroke him cuddle him

All the time but you weren’t supposed to touch him

He only slept for five minutes at a time

Then he’d suddenly perk up his head

In the middle of school medical inspection

And always on bus rides

So you had to climb down from the upper deck

All bent double to smuggle the puppy off the bus

Without the buxom conductress spotting

Your wicked and ticketless stowaway.

Jumping up, wet-nosed, eagerly wagging –

He only stopped being a nuisance

When you were alone together

Pretending to be doing your homework

But really gazing at each other

Through hot and hazy daydreams

Of those beautiful schoolgirls on the bus

With kittens bouncing in their sweaters.

And now I have a dog called Elderly

And all he ever wants to do

Is now and then be let out for a piss

But spend the rest of his lifetime

Sleeping on my lap in front of the fire.

Like telling only some friends about your porn stash, only some people will smile at that poem and totally agree with it. Them’s the fellas you want watching your back when the lead is flyin’.

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One response to “A puppy called puberty

  1. I only smiled because I’m elderly.

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