So farewell, Colin

I wrote something yesterday about my frustration at forgetting a great writing idea; this is what I wrote:

Last night the classic thing happened. I was just dozing off to sleep, snuggly and warm, when a trickle of an idea for a story wormed its way into my dozing brain. Jot a few notes, put something on your phone, even if its just a word, go on, go on, you can do it! So what was this great idea? Well, obviously I don’t know, because of course I was too snuggly, warm and dozy and I couldn’t sneak my arm out from under the cosy duvet to grab my phone and find my glasses.

I then wittered on about cold, being cold, and childhood memories of living in an unheated house apart from a fire in the sitting room and a paraffin heater in the passage, like most ordinary people in those days. I concluded with:

So back to last night, and the story I had wandering around inside my head. I didn’t write it down and now it’s wandered off. It was about a guy called Colin, that’s all I can remember. Perhaps it will come back to me tonight, in which case I will jot something down.

Well, it’s not unexpected to report that the dream of Colin didn’t return, and nor did I have any other half-remembered inspirations which I didn’t write down. However, my oldest friend, writer, historian and blogger, Andrew Simpson, was inspired, and sent me this:

So farewell Colin

So farewell Colin,
You held out so much promise,
As I snuggled under the duvet
With thoughts of you
But you proved an illusion.
A transitory link to hot water bottles, eiderdowns
And the warming cup of bedtime Horlicks.
No doubt in your palataceous sixty room home
In deepest Home Counties
The lights blaze all night
while your thermal footprint
illuminates the night-time sky.
No worries about fuel bills
Only the perennial chores of checking the overseas accounts,
Ordering another case of that “delightful” Samoan rice wine,
And penning that letter to the Telegraph of the need
For the equality of sacrifice.