Memoirs of a Life Unlived

May I take this opportunity, If I may be so bold? Unaccustomed as I am, you see, This story must be told. Shall I start at the beginning, then Or plough into the meat? Ah, but I’m a vegetarian: I’ll keep it short and sweet. If I put it in a nutshell, will You fully comprehend Every twist and turn and gasp and thrill From start to bitter end? No, I’ll tell you all there is to tell – There is no other way. Is it 3 o’ clock? Oh, bloody Hell! We’ll talk another day.

They don’t walk, they sprawl, taking up more space than you need, thoroughly bored by it all. It’s not just the clothes – coughing up a dun-coloured wealth, spewing the lifestyle they chose – you need to succeed: altering your DNA works. Nothing worth having won’t bleed.

See him cycling alongside her on a lane gilded with that low sun he knows you love, slicing through branches, strobing on your favourite shades in the warmth of the 4x4. Consider slowing down enough for him to read the number plate, shoot off just as feet touch ground and she asks what the Hell is going on. Watch them shrink in the mirror, check your teeth after the salad lunch heated with schemes: spinach misbecomes the bitch. Revel in the newfound power of a plan that goes without a hitch. Cry into napkins, plate untouched, plot unhatched.

You know the sort - brain no bigger than a watch battery. Look up and snort,   nose-back-in-the-book inadequacy. It's just a thought: how does one brushstroke fill a gallery?

I have taken lots of late-career Beatles tribute acts and helped them see the paradox of a seventy year old Lennon – lean and creased like Jagger – eyeball to eyeball still with McCartney, washed up Yoko rolling her eyes like the rest of us at another Pepsi tour and fat LP. Half a dozen sessions later they usually disband and retire on State Pension or take up jobs in DIY Stores, never again to speak of those wasted years. In the Manager’s strip-lit office, clean, they gaze at past Employees of the Month, and think of what might have been.