A Sonnet To Dinner ...

... where the witticism flows like wine,

and likewise stains the lips from which it drips.

Who has not felt the tongue's cruel flail?

Who has not quailed before that whip?

Admit me not to Pandemonium,

that two-starred Hell, where unkind hosts 

hold court, and homicidal chefs concoct

culinary deserts of burnt toast

I cannot look upon another assiette

bare but for some nanoparticle of Hollandaise.

I cannot go to banquets where I am the ghost.

I'll not be the lapdog, not the salon pet.

I'll lurk at home, and swallow takeaways

and, very coldly, sweat.

After finishing Amoeba Dick and sending it to an agent, I'm taking a month off writing before I start work on my next novel - Pretty Poli, or Monsieur Perroquet's Ascent to a High Perch. I'm using this time to attend to my home, for a diy frenzy is necessitated by the slum conditions and domestic desuetude in which I have become enmired whilst writing (i) my PhD and (ii) Amoeba Dick.

On the subjects of Pretty Poli, I'm going to have to do some research. The easy part will be re-reading the Mayor of Casterbridge. But is there anyone out there acquainted with a talkative, and preferably rather rude, parrot?