Previously when things turned sour in my life I’ve always turned to hugging trees – I find such solace in this simple act of communing with nature the only way I know how. Lately however, every place I go be it at work, to pray, within my relationship with my current partner Harry the ‘Bomb Thrower’ Evans and even at the shops people keep telling me I smell something chronic.  Frankly, given that I wash at least twice a month (using carbolic mind) I cannot see why I am cursed thus. Perhaps – although I am beginning to harbour doubts in this regard – poetry may offer some salvation. So here I gift you my latest – and possibly my last – poem. 


At work my colleagues say I smell

That I chuck up a lot

That my odour is repulsive

And worsens when it’s hot


My boyfriend he threw up on me

Just the other day

Said I stunk like a cesspit

Or a brothel in Bombay


They’ve banned me from my local church

For the parishioner’s they urge

The choir master passed out

Whilst conducting some holy dirge


At the shop that sells the fresh fish

The owner he did say

You do distress my patrons

So, ‘fuck off; go away’


I really cannot continue

Living my life like this

When even small boys at the bus stop

Laugh and take the piss


I think I will find a tree

And hug it quite a bit

Then throw a rope across a branch

And hang myself from it 

As ever my dilemma persists and I feel another suicidal moment coming about me. It’ll be my 49th attempt and this time I am minded to try a combination of Ex-Lax and Vindaloo as I once heard of a pilgrim on the road to Basildon who ended it all with this concoction – although rumour has it the pilgrim had also drunk copious quantities of lager (sadly not to my taste so I may have to substitute this with a fermented herbal concoction). This may then be my last blog. However, before implementing this latest plan to end it all I know of a Goat Willow just up the road simply gagging for a hug.

For the previous ‘Jessica Downlow’ please see;



  1. If you hear a bang, whallop, it is my computer hitting a tree. I’ve reloaded your page five times, the internet here is non existent am thinking of going back to carrier pigeon, though they might find it hard to carry a Bob.
    Sorry about the rant, but your poem did me good, calmed and gave me a smile , thank you.

    1. Anytime – I was in the middle of nowhere in France last week and the internet was rubbish. Strange how difficult it is to live without it. Anyway glad to hear you had a laugh!

    1. Whilst I have nothing against ‘tree huggers’ – and Lord knows we have enough of them over here – there is a certain insanity about them that has a certain appeal when it comes to satire.

  2. Perfect sequel to the previous one. It’s very funny somehow to read a poem ‘by’ someone who so bluntly describes one cruel rejection after the other…could this thing have legs perhaps? Given so many suicide attempts, the irony it seems is that even death rejects her;)

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