Taking advantage of the 'pont' as we call it over here (stretching a weekend across to the bank holiday) to go through piles of discarded drafts and false starts sitting up in my oh-so terribly tidy office. It's not as gruelling and teeth-clenching as I'd feared. In fact, there's a load of stuff that if I jack it up on the ramp and tinker underneath could actually be road worthy. Despite appearances, things have been going on. Which is massively chuffing and for the first time in ages I feel the start of a little song in the heart. A chuff finch, me.

In the process I hit upon an earlier go at a sonnet - impending senility means I'd forgotten that I had posted it back in 2008. Never mind. I chuckled at it fondly as one might old photos of your kids wearing silly hats and chocolate smeared around their mouths.

For those of you who weren't reading back then, here it is again with a few judicious tweaks. Not a sonnet anymore, or if you prefer a sonnet minus one. (Or maybe we take the title as part of the whole?).

A Rolling Stone Garottes Kate Moss

A stretch in Thame saves Nina
while a nibble a day keeps Thea’s daughter a waif

It's an ill Will who brings no goat
and every Claude has his servile leaning

No paint cloying over spoilt Mike
but it’s ruining Kate and Doug

Tim writes for Norman
Betty lied; Evan wed her

Mo hates; Les peed
Ill Hortense rang Dee

Di moans after Hedda
Thin Gus cursed

Cy lends a gnomon

°

Right up there with 'Shall I compare thee ...' of course.