I might as well face it
I’m addicted to viewings…

It’s Saturday night
and I’m on the computer
tapping in miles
and punching in details.

I’m looking for a match
like a kiss from a rose,
a spacious townhouse
like a picture book pose.

I’d like a garage
with a garden
and a room with a view,
an aga in the kitchen,
and a cellar
with a pool.

Forget about the fact
I’ve got the budget for a terrace.

Forget about the mortgage.
Forget about the credit.

Forget about the houses.
Forget about the moving -

I might as well face it,
I’m addicted to viewings…

“And here is the hallway,
here is the kitchen,
this is the master,
here is the boxroom.

It’s a south facing lounge
with the view of a wall,
it’s an investment property
so best not stall!”

And I’m writing down numbers,
got a hobby like a habit,
got property porn
like bats in the attic.

“Conveniently placed”
means near somewhere better.

“Attractively presented”,
recently painted.

It’s a “popular suburb”
so expect overcrowding

“A comfortable home”,
adjust expectations.

“Ideal, for first time buyers”,
so you couldn’t swing a poodle there.

“Original flooring”,
will need renovation.

“A traditional property”,
there are vertical stairs.

But it’s something about the way
you can peruse the unfamiliar.
Something about the way
you meet so many people.

Something about the way
a Victorian fireplace looks so lovely in Spring -

I might as well face it
I’m addicted to viewings.

I’ve been bitten by the bug.
I’m a mainlined search.
I’m browsing all night.
I can barely work.

I’m glued to the glass of
estate agent windows,
clicking and ringing
and doing the Limbo.

I’m visiting lounges
vacated of sofas,

walking through walls
of a stranger’s photos.

If I ever bought a place
I’d just have to move.

I might as well face it,
yes I might as well face it,
I might as well face it -

I’m in love with the looking,
I’m addicted to viewings.

something about the way you do…
multiple searches for mid terrace properties,

I might as well face it
I’m addicted to viewings.

It’s Saturday night
and I’m on the computer,
tapping in miles
and punching in postcodes.

I’m looking for a match
forget about the com,
a spacious town house,
a place in a loft.

I’d like a garage
and a garden
and a room with a view,
an aga in the kitchen
and a cellar
and a pool.

Forget about the fact
I’ve got the budget for a terrace.
Forget about the morgage,
forget about the credit.

Forget about the houses,
forget about the moving

I might as well face it
I’m addicted to viewings.

And here is the hallway.
Here is the kitchen.
This is the master.
Here is the boxroom.

Here is the box room
with all it’s potential,
you could fit a double bed
in any direction.

Ah you’ve noticed the flooring -
yes sorry about that..
the yard’s overlooked
by 15 flats.

It’s a south facing lounge,
with the view of a wall.
It’s an investment property
so best not stall.

And I’m writing down numbers.
I’ve got a hobby like a habit.
I’ve got property porn.
I’m addicted to adverts.

‘Conveniently placed’,
means near somewhere better.

‘Attractively presented’
means recently painted.

It’s a ‘popular suburb’
so expect overcrowding.

‘A comfortable home’
so adjust expectations.

‘Ideal for first time buyers’:
you couldn’t swing a poodle.

‘Original flooring’:
will need renovation.

But it’s something about the way
you can peruse the unfamiliar,
something about the way
you meet so many people -

something about the way…
a Victorian fireplace looks so lovely in Spring -

I might as well face it
I’m addicted to viewings.

I’ve been bitten by the bug.
I’m a mainlined search.
I’m browsing all night.
I can barely go to work.

I’m glued to the glass of
estate agent windows,
I’m clicking and ringing
I’m doing the limbo.

I’m visiting lounges
vacated of sofas,
I’m walking through walls
of a strangers photos.

If I ever bought a place
I’d just have to move –

I might as well face it
I’m addicted to viewings.

Yes I might as well face it
I’m addicted to viewings.

Yes I might as well face it

I’m addicted, to viewings.

I was about to post my plans for the evening, which are largely pivoting around the domestic, and ranging from – cleaning the bathroom.. to assisting with the making of pizza dough. Anyway, I was suddenly struck by how much better a blog is for that kind of thing.

The thing I like about blogs, versus social networking sites, is the way in which the former feels so much less demanding. Because at least half the purpose of a blog may also be to collate thoughts or information – not just to reach out to others – and because they are open to the whole world, not just a group of accepted contacts, there is perhaps less of an imperative or pressure on a reader to respond to stuff.

This means, I think, greater freedom for everyone. The writer doesn’t feel like they can’t post something they’d like to, because it’s just too small, and the reader doesn’t feel like they’re being asked to formulate a response to something infinitesimal.

So, disregarding any doubts around why, exactly, the whole world would have any burning desire to hear about the minutiae of my evening, I am indulging my desire to discuss in advance the full, terrible extent of my plans

This evening I am planning to…

Clean the bathroom; make a new book to read from at gigs; hover helpfully around the making of pizza dough; do various other things and later, possibly, watch a film. The plan is ‘Beautiful Lies’ – an unashamedly feel good rom-com, with the lead actress from Amelie.

I am not the most domestic person in the world, so perhaps that’s why I feel the need to crow about such household related matters. The bathroom, in particular, is in quite a bad way. Not for long though… I have purchased a special ‘kills all dirt’ spray gun and new sponges (!)

I have also purchased a roll of exciting wallpaper, such can be used for the making of poetry books from scratch. It has large orange flowers and an odd Lino effect that makes it appear, well, a bit like Lino.

So, off to knead, bleach, cut and watch. Barring further procrastination, a half clean bathroom, half hoovered floor and brand new poetry book awaits me!

I am giddy (really) with excitement.

As she steeps tea

and she stirs sugar,

he hangs about the hallway

flickers in the bathroom.

As she places two cups

and settles back,

like someone returning

from a busy bar,

somewhere in the hallway

a veranda unfolds.

She stirs with a spoon

the view of an ocean.

Talking like breathing

we’re sitting with tea cups,

we’re speaking darjeeling,

earl grey and assam.

I describe the walk

and the stopping for milk,

she conjures umbrellas,

hangs some silk.

And the Rasta from the hills

lights up a spliff,

the man from Edinburgh

wants to move in,

the guy from Bar Roma,

now says, he has a wife,

the teacher from Cambridge

remains oddly quiet.

We wind our talk

across a distant beach,

double back,

read leaves.

We drink tea

cup after cup.

No more dark bars.

No more dark rum.

We drink tea
cup after cup
We lime in her kitchen,

Calypso, with mugs.

We drink tea
and the moon folds up
We kick off our shoes

dance on a rug,


and the Rasta by the kettle,

teacher by the jug

Polly put the kettle on,
Polly put the kettle on,
Polly put the kettle on,
we’ll all have tea.

She turned into Cleo,
overnight,

She turned into Medea,
overnight,

when she confessed to Him
that she’d always faked

liking zombie films.
She’d had her eyes shut

the whole time.

As she steeps tea

and she stirs sugar,

he hangs about the hallway

and flickers in the bathroom.

As she places two cups

and settles back,

like someone returning

from a busy bar,

somewhere in the hallway

a veranda unfolds.

She stirs with a spoon

the view of an ocean.

Talking like breathing

we’re sitting with tea cups,

we’re speaking darjeeling,

earl grey and assam.

I describe the walk

and the stopping for milk,

she conjures umbrellas,

hangs some silk.

And the Rasta from the hills

lights up a spliff.
The man from Edinburgh

wants to move in

The guy from Bar Roma,

now says, he has a wife

The teacher from Cambridge

remains oddly quiet.

We wind our talk

across a distant beach,

double back,

read leaves.

We drink tea

cup after cup.

No more dark bars.

No more dark rum.

We kick off our shoes

and dance on a rug,


and the Rasta by the kettle,

the teacher by the jug.

Polly put the kettle on,
put the kettle on.

We drink tea
and the moon folds up.
We lime in her kitchen.

Calypso, with mugs.

Bleach makes your hair grow
it massaged my follicles back to life.
Forget your greens. Keep your carrots.
It’s bleach that makes
your hair grow right.