Walking down the street, I met a problem.
The mother of all problems.
No, the grandmother of all problems.
Maternity squared, with a handbag.
A big one.
First, I tried to go around the problem.
Then over it,
then under it,
but the problem wasn’t a bear hunt, or indeed a bear.
It was a problem.
I tried to avoid the problem.
I bribed it with chocolate, dressed up as a policeman, a nun,
Scooby Doo. I split up to search for clues.
I put on a fake moustache and sunglasses,
and pretended to be a Jehovah’s Witness.
I threw rocks at the problem.
I tried appealing it to its better nature,
tried telling it that it had left the oven on,
that it’s refrigerator was running, and it had better catch it.
I tried begging, pleading, prodding it with a really sharp stick.
I took the problem out to the cinema, out to a candlelit restaurant,
home to meet my parents, on a honeymoon to Spain,
to court. But the problem overruled.
I promised to spend more time with the problem,
promised it that things could still work between us,
told the problem to go to hell, to Milton-Keynes,
to get out more,
I pushed the problem under a bus.
I dropped weights on it. An elephant.,
a rhinoceros, a hippo, a
a million million million tonnes.
I told the problem it had won the lottery, an Ipad,
a free holiday to Barbados, to Las Vegas,
to the Moon.