It all happened the day I attended the Hove writers’ group session.
Late as usual, I arrived as former headmaster,
Miles Meade-Mensum, was reading from his novel, Dilated Pupils.

I’d been encouraged to join the group by my therapist, 
who was fed up hearing me talk about a story
I was threatening to write.

It was about an obsessive nerd – me – who,
brought up by a bishop, spends his spare time
documenting England’s church steeples.

I was hoping for feedback, but was too shy to read it out loud, 
and remained incognito in a gathering which tended to be
dominated by a few individuals, 
while others occasionally exposed their literary work.

However, there was one in particular, who like myself, 
would hide within the herd.

I talk of the enigmatic Millie, enigmatical because she
would occasionally erupt into voluble opinion, 
and I wished to know her.

Which I did, that very morning,
and the person I would like to thank for bringing
us two lost souls together,
is our stern but kind group organiser, Miss Gulflittle.

It was she who suggested the theme for the
weekly writing exercise – that we write about a song title.

I chose one called Bunclody, and my subsequent verse, 
as you can see below, sparked a response from a quiet soul called Millie.

Attractive in an old-fashioned way, she had hidden depths.

These had emerged when, on a rare occasion,
she’d been persuaded to read from a self-penned story, 
Depression Kills But God Wills,
and lately I’d noticed her bestowing upon me a sly, curious look.

Anyway, these are the lines I’d managed to knock out,
with trembling hands, a result of my hungover state.

‘I want to go to Bunclody, for I’ve heard it sung about by some peasant.
He became a hero in America, fighting Indian tribes.
Alas, his family never knew that their son led a life so remarkable...

Suddenly Millie interrupted my flow with,
‘The rhymes are too predictable’.
Needless to say I was upset by this stern rebuke.

Even more when she added, ‘I thought you would have
risen to the challenge of that writing task.’

I noticed she was writing about The Beatles’ ballad Yesterday,
and wondered if it was in the present tense, but was too timid to ask.

Then Miss Gulflittle gave us a short piece,
inspired by an old English ballad, I wandered by a Brookside.

She told of a girl who’d bathed naked with her love
in a woodland glade, and was forever vilified by her stern guardian,
aunt Gloria Glitterly-Gad.

We all whispered that such a tale was so unlike this strait-laced woman,
then went to the pub.

Encouraged by her smile, I remarked to Millie,
‘Your writing exercise was illuminating and to the point,
yet laced with neat observations about what we all want,
which is to go back to yesterday.’

But she reprimanded me with, ‘Don’t be a sycophant.’

I yawned to hide my embarrassment, ‘Don’t be a what?’

‘Sycophantic, one who is obsequious to gain favour.’

‘I want to hear what you really think; dig into your soul, 
like wot Miss Gullyspittle, or whatever her name is, did, 
and wasn’t she brave to recall an embarrassing moment?

‘I had an aunt like Miss Gloria Glitterly-Gad.
Me and my pals even had our own woodland dell.’

‘Did you bathe in the nud?’ I jokingly asked, expecting another rebuke.
‘No, but I’m fairly new to Brighton and fancy braving the naturist beach.’

I gasped with shock, ‘You’ve certainly come out of your shell.’

She looked annoyed, saying, ‘Don’t patronise,’ then relented,
‘Actually,’ I’ve been reading a self-help book called 
Face The Fear and Give ’Em Hell.

I pondered what this meant, and decided to
throw caution to the wind at the next writers’ meeting.

I regaled them with a piece in which my hero
rescues a church warden from a falling brick,
while documenting a steeple that dates from the Norman Conquest.

Everyone was impressed by it, particularity my use of names, 
for example, I set the fictional church in the village of Bickwig-Bohest.

Millie applauded and we ended up strolling on the beach,
where she stopped and picked up a pebble.

Playing with it for a minute, she said,
‘I’m no longer obsessed with yesterday,
although I love the song.

‘You never did tell me about the ballad you wrote about,
the one I criticised, bun something or other.’

‘Oh that, it’s about a lad who was too timid to
woo his childhood love in the village of Bunclody,
so leaves for America, barely old enough to shave,
seeking his fortune.

‘He’s then lauded by the settlers for being so brave.’

She looked at me with a grin, saying, ‘Predictable rhymes again.’

‘But,’ I pleaded, ‘I suffer from obsessional compulsive disorder.’

‘Oh, really? We’ve both got what psychologists call ‘issues’ then.’

But I carried on, ‘He returns to find his rival in love
has been killed at the Battle of Mallacoyne,
and is reunited with his sweetheart.’

At this Millie looked at me just as the sun was setting,
‘I hope you’re not going to leave.’

‘I’m shy,’ I cried, ‘let’s get pished.’

After brandy in that quaintest of pubs, The Cobbler’s Cart, 
we finished off with real ale in the Sober Soldier.

I asked her to marry me, and she didn’t think twice.

My fellow Hove writers all cheered at our wedding.
Why, we even got an approving look from Miss Gulflittle.

(I keep attending the writers’ group for advice,
and hope the rhymes in this so-called poem aren’t too predictable).