The Occasional ...

... Poet

Robin got up from his desk and put away the tools of his trade. Pen, pencil, paperclips …

It had been another hard day at the office. His job was so demanding, and it got harder as time went on.

He’d never really envisaged himself working for a big corporation. As a young man he’d always wanted to do something creative. Perhaps he would write a prize winning novel. Perhaps he would write the kind of songs that made women cry. Perhaps he would paint breathtaking pictures.

As he walked home that night, he reflected that – like so many people – he’d had to make compromises along the way.

He’d been the archetypal baby boomer. Born into a world shaking off the nightmare of war and beginning to recreate itself. He’d heard The Beatles play and watched England win the World Cup

Robin had always wanted to be John Lennon. Except when he was watching football – then he wanted to be George Best!

The words to ‘Hey Jude!’ and ‘Yellow Submarine’ formed a backdrop to his life, reflecting and altering his moods.

Well, at least he’d managed to find a job where he could use his creative talents a bit. He’d never be John Lennon, but sometimes he thought that the things he wrote were better than a lot of stuff that passed for pop songs these days.

As he cooked supper for himself and channel-hopped his way through an evening of television, he sought inspiration for the next day’s writing task. Inspiration could come from anywhere. Something he heard on the radio, something he read in a book, snatches of eavesdropped conversation.

He knew that when he sat down at his desk the next morning, imagination would flow. After all that was what he was paid for. It wasn’t as exciting as being in The Beatles, but it was a steady income.

He woke up the next morning and started off on his journey to work. Half an hour later he arrived at the huge imposing building which his employers rented.

Sitting at his desk, he thumbed through the latest copy of ‘Cards Today’ the internal newsletter of the international company which paid his wages.

He flexed his fingers and picked up his pen. Then he wrote down the phrase he’d been mulling over all night, and now felt was perfect for the occasion.

‘Happy Birthday To You!’