True Story

I am sitting on a bus in central London. Andrew Motion, poet laureate, boards the bus.

'Oh,' I think. 'You're Andrew Motion, poet laureate.' He sits nexts to me.

Another passenger removes his headphones. "I've worked it out!" he exclaims, excitably. "I've placed you! You're a writer! You read at Tales of the Decongested a few weeks ago!"

Yes, I know you're stressed

and I know it's annoying you that I'm not stressed. But after the six months I've just had, believe me there is nothing - nothing - that we need to be stressed about right now.

So take a deep breath and let's get on with it, yeah?

Yes, I'm still alive,

which is lucky.

Look, will you all just fuck off

I'm hungover and I'm in a bad mood anyway and I just can't be doing with any of this, yeah?

That didn't

take long.

Someone tell Jamie Oliver

I suspect macaroni cheese may be hallucinogenic.

I have asserted my moral rights

Which is ironic, really.

Two at once

My brain is fit to explode.

Oh god

I'm going to get told off.