A couple of years ago, some bright

spark came up with the idea of plastering

quotes from Larkin’s poems inside

the blood-clot red buses that rush around

 

Hull. It was some sort of back-handed

attempt to pay tribute to his legacy. It’s

Tuesday morning, and I’m off into

town to try and convince someone

 

that I’m worth every penny. To my

left sits a boy with enough attitude to

crush any phonies into dust. He’s trying

to block out the racket of his mam as she

 

struggles to get her other bain to calm

down and sit back in her pram. Above us,

a sour faced Phil looks down and frowns.

“Man hands on misery to man.

   

It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

    And don’t have any kids yourself.”

printed next to his head in a speech-

 

bubble. I’m hungry and still recovering

from waking up, but for some reason the

thought of the old fucker spinning in his

grave cheers me up. Well, it does for a bit.