Listen to Julia read 'Faith in our times':
Faith in our times
Let me win the lottery.
Let my indolence be deeply satisfying,
my new-found friends exude integrity,
my chauffeur drive me soberly,
my white stretch limousine be
inconspicuous, low key.
Let my investments
be low risk, high growth,
my helicopter safe as houses.
Let my media be favourable,
my paparazzi self-effacing,
my Sun reporters even-handed, fair.
Let my gluttony be flattering,
my lusts acceptable,
my drugs designer-pure,
my year-round tan not ageing nor
malignant. Let my plastic surgeon have
the hand of Michelangelo.
Let my paradise be well-protected,
my gates electrified,
my stalkers all pre-empted.
Let the gun beside my bed be loaded,
my aim be true
and let my sleep be dreamless.
II. Cold call
In the end you know they'll come for you
though you won't see them darkening the door:
Gothic, improbable throwbacks from some body's past
out of place but chillingly at home,
their white shirts luminous against
their strangely worn dark suits,
their flesh plausible enough but their expressions
ill-composed. Three of them. One fingers a hat
lifted from some bleak melodrama. Two hang back:
one with a holdall, heavy, black. Don't ask.
After formalities they'll leave them to it, your protectors
opening and closing doors like rank conspirators -
and after so long fighting you won't lift a finger either
but let them - stitch you up, truss you, robe you
outlandishly as they see fit, until
you are no longer you but some cold clone
that submits to be carried silent, prone,
out from your earthly home
towards some other alien unknown.