Tomorrow

Tomorrow never comes around

It is a day that can’t be found

The mystery of what lies ahead

Thoughts running through a busy head

In bed wondering what’s to come

Ideas pounding like a drum

Dreams and aspirations dwell

Then midnight rings its final bell

Tomorrow holds an ambitious fate

Tomorrow’s always running late

Another day has now arrived

But tomorrow has not survived

Future desires have gone away

Tomorrow’s just another day By Sarah Rengozzi

Tomorrow and Tomorrow and the Day After

The mirror in Selina’s bathroom was a focal point for her rich theatrical dreams. It was surrounded by small lights, much like a glamourous dressing room make-up mirror; it was Selina’s confessional.

Selina  loved the theatre and was a member of the town’s am-dram soc.  It attracted all the local luvvies and a fair few from towns further afield who enjoyed a strut round the green room, and huddled round pieces of gossip like barnacles on a boat. Selina, having unglamourous theatrical skills, enjoyed a rather peripheral am-dram life. She offered services such as box office duty and prompting.

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Tomorrow

How I came to be in McLaine’s commune on the shore of Puerto de la Valencia is a story for another time, because today, of all days, is about tomorrow.

McLaine was busying himself with his fishing nets in the courtyard at the back of the pre-civil war building housing his community, his wives, Consuela and Pamela were arguing in a mixture of rapid-fire Spanish and Surrey English about the best way to gut hake, and the writers, me included, were sitting on the garden wall watching the TV we rented for the occasion. We’d positioned it there because no room in the house was big enough to hold more than two of us and one of those would have to be standing.

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