"Numbers": alternative version - including extra line, found in the handwritten words (rough draft in notepad), and a minor adjustment to the next line...

You would love to put me on trial.

Meanwhile,

my mind is full of words,

and in-yer-face neon signs,

and pale moonlight,

illuminating my

private night sky.


Numbers - digits -

they leave my imagination numb.

They're hostile - no fun.

Probably explains

my grade F in Maths,

blending as much as contrasting

with straight As in English -

Language and Literature, both.


I am not the number

scrawled upon the file

that you pretend not to keep on me.


Stop ringing. Facebook me - or Tweet me, if you must.

My soul is telephone phobic,

and ex-directory,

and I have taken the receiver off the hook already.


I really don't want to bin

this pile of Falmer jeans.

Yes, they represent a previous decade's styles.

And no, they probably wouldn't

fit me, anyway.


Talk to me

and not the number

on my file.


Even if the dial on your scales

won't stop in time,

I might still be worthwhile.


I visited The Wizard of OZ,

and he told me

that Victoria B. is really

no thinner than me.

She simply owns clothes

in smaller sizes,

into which she can fit with ease.

That's why they invented

stores such as Marks and Spencer,

and "vanity sizing"

to fit your wildest dreams.


It's not about make-up.

It's not about glamour.

It's not about attendance at church.

And it's definitely not about

the results of my Maths GCSE.


Don't attempt to quantify me.