Year Zero: Day 83

In an unprecedented move i’ve taken it upon myself to mix the words with the wild, I know, I hear you cry, he’s insane, she’s mad, the gender a mystery, but in today’s idiotic ramblings i’m mixing FOTD or Fungi of the day (I think it may be a lichen, but lets not split spores) It grows, as do fungi and flowers and fruit, and so are one and the same, Fuck you, pedantic botanists, in an unthreatening nice way. So with that endearing introduction and the possibility of many more followers finally realising,

“Oh he doesn’t discriminate does she, I’ll join the cult”

Come on down. Today you, the new faithful, are held together by Ragtag’s Daily Prompt, Flower of the Day (a visual prompt, see earlier) and Fandango’s One Word Challenge; the man who showed me that blogging needn’t always be about writers block, and that just letting your fingers type away without thinking is sometimes the best thing you could do, it’s also one of the worst things you can do depending on who you may be, and which side of the waterfall you stand. I for one don’t care, leave if you like but have a think about what you could miss…

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The last week has been racially charged in this household, the massive racist publican of my village pub has unfortunately made me reassess my future drinking where abouts. It is no longer possible to walk up the road for a pint, I will be forced possibly to relive my late teenage years in Bruntingthorpe, where we used to tramp across muddy ridge and furrow to get to the Shearsby Bath which served under 18’s, now its some awful wedding venue, suck ’em in, spit ’em out. Like a RoRo cargo ship, with the added distinction that some of these newly weds would be back a handful of years later to marry their best friend’s wife, maybe. So the trip to the pub will be a good 3 miles return trip, I’m not sure I trust myself to avoid snuggling down in the base of the quarry with only deer shit for company, we’ll see, it’s a dynamic situation. The problem being too that this year Zero thing, nearly 12 weeks old or nearly 8 1/2 in the new decimalised and patented “Ministry of Shrawley Weeks” marked the closure of pubs and restaurants, I wonder if it finishes when I find my safe pub again or if when they open and I haven’t found anywhere yet, its my blog, I make the rules and so I’ll think on this one.

But I feel the change is coming and I think it’s apt to mention this at this particular juncture, the headline in the Worcester Evening News tonight after yesterdays smash exclusive of “Long Queues for Burgers” was “New Bar for City”. Yes, we are a city and we are mentioning a new bar which is to open, its great news, unless it’s a shit bar, but then won’t affect me as I will visit once, decide its a shit bar and never go again, but it’ll help fill the time before I die, which hopefully for me is a long time into the future, touch wood.

Today I thought of the various cycles which are ever present in our world in some capacity; the water cycle, the menstrual cycle, the carbon cycle, the bicycle. I just googled “types of cycle” hoping to learn about other scientific cycles, but was inundated with Bicycle chat so there we are, a weak end to the example. However I have invented a new cycle in these lockdown weeks known as the Front Door Cycle.

THE FRONT DOOR CYCLE.

“The Postman Giveth, The Dustbin Man Taketh Away, and everything in-between is but dust and exhausted noise.”

The post man brings Records, Tapes and to a lesser extent CDs, he also, weirdly, brings scatter cushions, scatter covers, clothing and football pumps. All of these items are either smuggled in for fear of discovery or I shout upstairs that the scatter cushions and scatter covers, clothes and football pumps have arrived. Once lovingly opened and played in a casual manner that indicates an old record which hasn’t seen the light of day for many years, the wrapping is placed in the recycling bin with the wine bottles (Mrs T) the crushed beer cans, crushed so no one will notice them (me) and AOB; cardboard, everyone else. Once, every time slot, its hard to say how often, the recycling bin is taken to the big recycling bin on the drive outside the front door, and dropped in. 2 weeks later the bins are emptied, recycling one week, other the next. Garden rubbish has always been tricky, on the compost pile is messy, we’ve 3 compost bins, all full and, would you believe, all full of fine compost, which I’m too scared to ask Mrs T to post on the village FB site for fear of waking up with a burning recycling bin of cardboard, slicing glass and molten plastic on our front drive for NOT being racist.

Fucking reasonable people… BURN THEM!!!

So there you go, the bins go, the memory of records and scatter cushions delivered becomes a thing of the past as the empty bin is dragged across the gravel. we’ve got 2 weeks to fill it… On your marks… get set… GO!!!

And that is the Front Door Cycle, it’s a work in progress and I admit probably needs work before the New Scientist expresses an interest. But you heard it here first.

3 comments

  1. O. Apart from not needing a Pub, me no drink, thongs are mostly cyclic here, from the cyclists who try to remove pedestrians from the footpaths to which bin goes out tonight. With an ex policeman in the house conversation has cycled around truth and Police stress without much reference to colour. We have had our own riots about Aboriginal deaths in custody with fresh cases of Covid-19 emerging because of such close contact.
    I had my wallet stolen yesterday which I hope doesn’t herald another cycle.

    Liked by 1 person

      • Well I bought a 3 dollar wallet, and cancelled cards. Today I went to the Service centre to regain my photo I.D. and my Seniors Card. One by one I am reclaiming my existence as Self.

        Like

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