I have done a braver thing

Than all the Worthies did;

And yet a braver thence doth spring,

Which is, to keep that hid.

    I bet the last thing with which you expected me to start today’s entry was an extract from one of my favourite John Donne poems but I like to think I can still surprise people.

    Or as Mrs. Snowman says: “There are times when I don’t fucking believe you”.

    Both the poem and the wife’s feelings encapsulated my day. I shall start with the brave part. It started simply enough with a request to get the car keys from her handbag. To a woman this wont register as anything out of the ordinary; to a man it strikes terror into his very soul.

    The inside of a woman’s handbag is one of those mythical things like the seventh circle of Hell or David Beckham’s intellect. It should never be ventured into by anyone other than it’s owner, but your writer is made of stronger stuff.

    With laboured breathing and shaking hands I turned my head away, closed my eyes and thrust my hand into its interior. After some tentative rummaging around it was clear the keys would not be found by seeking them blind. I swallowed hard, opened my eyes and peered inside.

    A couple of soiled tissues nestled next to a tampon, which in turn formed a bed for a half eaten packet of mints. Several items of make-up (including some lipstick with it’s top missing) rattled around with at least six disposable cigarette lighters and, for some strange reason a plastic fork. All of these items were more or less identifiable but there was something else unrecognisable stuck to the side which looked like a cross between an old sock and a dead mouse. No car keys were in evidence.

    I pointed this out and Mrs. Snowman responded by rolling her eyes, snatching the bag and pulling out the keys! Not only that, but a packet of cigarettes were also produced. I am left with only two possible conclusions; either Mrs. Snowman can perform black magic (extremely likely considering her mother) or woman’s handbags are portals to another dimension and can actually create matter.

    With this in mind, maybe one of my female readers could open their own purse and see if they can locate some of the legends of modern society; George Bush’s sincerity, Paris Hilton’s brain, The Spice Girls talent.

    What will not be found, however, is my common sense.

    With only slightly more than $14 in my account I lose all sense of reality and try my luck at the 5c/10c tables. It’s not long before I plough the whole lot onto the table and go all-in with trip Jacks and a King kicker. It’s a tense moment and I’m filled with confidence before my opponent showed trip Jacks with an Ace.

    For the second time since I started this journal I’m back to square one with nothing in my account. Once more I shall have to earn cash in the freerolls to kick things off again. Starting tomorrow I shall play with a different attitude and keep everyone informed of the progress. If you can hear something else in the background, don’t be alarmed, it’s just my stomach turning over at the thought.

    So, I finish today’s entry as I started: with a poem.

    Maybe it lacks the magnificence and flowing splendour of 17^th century verse but I think it still offers the same exquisite complexity of emotion. I’m sure you can all relate to its beauty and simplicity.

If I had the wings of a sparrow

And the arse of a fucking great crow

I'd fly to the top of the tables

And shit on the donkeys below.

Starting bank:  $0