Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Unhappy But Still Glorious

Spring still clings to the ground as it stares up at the leaves, who are able to live without toppling from the trees, for now, because while nothing gold can stay, they are green, for now, gleaming in the early sunlight.

There are flags lining every building, like the leaves line the trees, and as I wait for the Jubilee to come and go, I wonder if Our Liz likes to watch the way the seasons change, as I do.

I started calling her “Our Liz” ironically, and now I can’t stop. She’s not the type of girl that runs through my mind constantly, usually, but I see her everywhere that I go, these days, so into my mad little mind she slips, for a second, and I start asking myself what she thinks of trees and things.

I wonder if Our Liz likes a cider in the sunshine? She’ll be tied up with a long weekend of things I wouldn’t want to do in her place, but I wonder if she’ll steal away for a moment, sipping a cider in the sunshine with a slim lucky strike, as Cliff Richard carries on.

We really are alike but totally different, I’m sure. When we were young, those who loved us called us “Princess” but only one of us got half of the World for their twenty seventh birthday. Still, who can resist the best part of a bank holiday? Maybe she and I will split some spirits?

We both ate free when we were at school. Me, because I was poor, and her because she was rich, but I was rich in borrowed books and ideas that weren’t locked away like her diamonds, so perhaps, even with my house that is humbled by her many palaces, I won.

I read once, in yet another borrowed book, that she loved to learn, but was never allowed to expand her mind in the way her family expanded their empire. I felt some sympathy, but she never had to learn about Mummy skipping meals to make ends meet, so it really was as little sympathy as I could spare.

Now the leaves are green, summer is on the horizon and flags are fucking everywhere. I know little about the woman who stares up from pound coins and puddles that reflect the tempest of decorations. I wander the streets, wondering what goes on in her mind, and what goes on behind palace doors.

Do you fancy some shots, Liz? It is your special day, after all.

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