News

When he returned from the warHe began to
hordeCopies of The Times.Slouched in his
ChesterfieldOr oftentimesAt the
breakfast, lunch or dinner tableHe would read from
front to backCarefully fold the day's
newsThen add it to the pile.It
was an archiveHe saidOn the
advent of the transistorAnd
againThree years laterWhen
Churchill ousted Attlee.His wife
sighedAnd tried to dust
aroundGeorge VI laying in
stateAnd the three million Korean
bodiesLittering the thirty-eighth
parallel.By the time Floyd
PattersonFloored Archie Moore in Round
FiveNewspaper tower blocksWere
rising throughout the sitting room.We've no room for
a wirelessHe saidBesides, I've
all the news I wantRight
hereBrandishing the silver
tureenOf Sputnik One.He would
notcould notPart with
themNuzzling deeper into drifts of cream and
greyTransforming the room into his counting
house.-Nor
tilCharlie Heston raisedHis Oscar
for Ben-HurDid the idea spark.It came to
herSat on a wet bench in the
parkPicking chips and battered
codFrom a crumpled tulip of
newsprintA wayTo staunch the
swampy flowTo prune his
archiveBefore it spread to the
hallAnd started jostling for
spaceWith the
hat-stand.-She began
subtlyShredding Arnold PalmerAnd
his US Open triumphInto thin
stripsBefore stirring him into the sausage
casserole.She watchedHer husband
chomp and slobberGravy dripping from his
forkDenials playing round the inside of her
mouthLike boiled sweets.It grew
easier.He gnashed through the Bay of
PigsMummified in a strudelLunched
oblivious on fish paste andA Sino-Mongolian border
treaty.By the Alaskan earthquake of
'64Every meal she fed himWas
thick with history.His teeth
crushedStrikes, ground down gristy
oppressors.One evening, queasy from an ear
infectionCaught at the poolHe
pushed the Tet Offensive asideUnfinished and
swimming in ketchup.-He read of
Thatcher's entranceWith an
eyeglassBlinking through the dark
streaksOf cataracts. His hand shook
-Ballot box stats obscureAs if
viewed through a frosted pane.Damn that
womanHe told the
room.-She returns from her walk
to findHim slumped in his
armchairEyeglass
smashedSurrounded by a lifetime's
workToday's paper spread in his
lap.I want to make spaceHe
saysFor a transistor
radio.GoodShe
saysAnd smilesThough she is a
little out of breathI'll cook you something
specialTo celebrate.