Looking out my front door this morning, the sky was blotched, grey upon grey, like the paint tray half way through the greyification of our kitchen, contemporary apparently, non threatening certainly but sings to the halls once accessorised, colour really bring out the greyness. I probably should have worn my rainbow jumper, scratchy hippy stock from Nepal, 1999, still as good as new, bright and vibrant, I’ve a good mind to wear it this weekend.
Went to work, did work, got wet, kids are at home and I provided brownies for the tutor who at e half and left it on the plate. Thats like eating half a biscuit from the barrel, which is the height of bad manners, I really don’t know what to say further on the matter of the half eaten brownie, I grew out of half eating things and leaving them half eaten and unfinished about 40 something fucking years ago. Christ on a bike.
The roads are suffering and Britain is crumbling with every drop of fallen rain, I have so little trust in the people in charge who look through the glass and totally believe it to be rose tinted. Every day we hear of little things which are harmed and affected by Brexit, maybe not a lot to a lot of people, but a lot to some people, and those some people when added together make a fair amount of different people being affected in different ways doing their different things, so it follows that a lot of people are being affected in a lot of different ways while doing a lot of different things. Work it out for your selves and do the fucking logic, but for the magnolia painted hallways this is absolutely fine; they can dig out the lighthouse family and be happy with that shit coming through the airwaves day after day after day. See if I care i’ll be living in Beneficio as a fugitive along with the rest of them, blasting the Ozric Tentacles out across the valley.
Returning from the flood affected Bewdley, I stopoped in at the house to feed the kids, then set off out again to Worcester, but the way the traffic jams and land slips conspired against me I ended up on a building site I really couldn’t be on as the directors and inspectors were visiting, and I don’t have a fake id apart from the photo card for the “International Press club” which in the outskirts of Worcester won’t go very far. I came back, tail between my legs, told my son to get dressed and we set off, destination; the floodplains of the Severn. Felling pretty spry son A and myself, skipped off road, clambered up sandstone cliffs, threw sticks into the swollen Dick… Brook. The woods are quiet when the weather is foul, no fucker comes out apart for the hard core, theres not too many and as I get older there are days when I question my place in the woods. This doesn’t last long as we raise our pewter tankards filled with frothy beer and toast our good fortune to be tramping around the Paths and gulleys of Shrawley.