... but I stopped. Now I'm a dad, and may blog again...

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

332: Bring beer.

Public park like a large private garden twenty seconds walk from my front door – getting the hang of flip-flops, flip-flopping it to a patch of grass to sit and read – try to write, scribbling crap in a girly little note book. Attempting literature and science-fiction and slowly failing at both- chin up son, you'll get there in the end. Start a story, write for a bit, and then finish it – woohoo a finished story. A family punt, putt and pot golf balls at one another across the uneven green. Little girl-little dog jumps on our blanket yip yip yip, clouds swirl before and behind the sun, raising goosbumps and shivers, smoothing them out with soothing sunbeams.

Bicycles, joggers, an idiot on a motorbike, footballs. If there were tennis courts they would surely be in use right about now, as Wimbledon brings about pretensions of tennis-love in all who are easily persuaded. Future generations of Brits will be world class participants at playing on the swings and pushing about little sisters. Or lying on a blanket eating crisps and reading Asimov – gold medal.

drawing by kate at bejeweled

The sun goes down and who knows what goes down in the park once the sun has gone down. The robot rats and the hobbling pigeons take over, pecking the eyes and knawing the toes of all who impinge upon their land. They man and mouse the border and flick sticks when they see the whites of your eyes. Invisible rainbows rise over the secret paddy fields and potato patches. The moles parade in tophats and tails, as the gnomes snicker to themselves. I cannot confirm the truth or otherwise of these claims – those pesky rats are keeping me well at bay. Plus, you know, I've got my shoes off and it's sort of bedtime, so perhaps I'll give all that stuff a miss. Its not important anyway.

These blogs don't write themselves you know, but on days like this I wish they would. It's backbreaking labour ; much worse than being a pit pony or drug mule. Those marathon runners with bloody nipples know nothing about hard work or pain compared to what I'm going through. Those guys can turn their brains off and just keep putting one foot in front of the other, whereas when my brain is turned off and there seems to be no on switch.

There is a constant beeping coming from the security system downstairs. It's not the alarm, just a meaningless beep-beep-beep that will not stop. Come around and sort it out ; bring wire cutters and a blow torch. And beer.

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