The list was lost behind a radiator
And stayed there until, decades later,
I fished it out with the end of a broom
When I was painting the living room.

The ink had faded with my hopes;
I have not skied on Alpine slopes.
I haven’t cruised the Miracle Mile,
Or sailed along the golden Nile;

Raved in Rio, trekked Tibet,
Raced a little red Corvette
Along the California coast.
Of doing these I cannot boast.

My cooked-up dreams were pie in the sky;
Somewhere in the years gone by
I must have missed the magic bus
That takes the route more fabulous.

I haven’t watched the sun go down
In Monaco, or Kingston Town.
Life’s slipped through my butterfingers;
Now the scent of failure lingers.

I’d dreamed of castles in the air,
But wound up in a cheap flat share.
The only Castle I go near
Is a local pub with pricey beer.

With middle-aged lucidity,
I face my illiquidity;
Go to Goa? I never will –
I can’t afford the bloody bill.

So I tore up my bucket list,
And wrote instead a fuck-it list
Of things that I don’t want to do
Instead of dreams that won’t come true,

I’ve realised I can’t be arsed
with straining till I breathe my last
to reach the goals I set myself
when I was young and in full health,

I will not ever join a gym
To make my body lean and trim,
Or drink non-alcoholic beer
And focus on a new career;

Heed advice from the government,
Or give up fags for bloody Lent.
January won’t be dry;
Stoptober, I’ll be getting high.

I’ve lost my hankering to roam,
And look for pleasures nearer home –
Splendours within easy reach,
Like surf that booms on Hastings beach;

Winter gales bending treetops,
Dusty novels in second-hand bookshops.
No more reaching for the moon!
– I’m just trying to paint the living room.