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.

311: Summer breeze, please

The heat has dropped splodge like sweaty lettuce and hot greasy bacon slapping repeatedly against your cheeks and rubbing itself in your armpits.  Who put this swelt in the sky, and who melted the line holding it above our heads?  Comfortable chill has been usurped by gasping airless buses and window burn.  Personally I’m stuck to the sofa and the walls around me can no longer support their own weight; I don’t know about you, and the structural integrity of your anthropomorphic home.  How could I presume to such knowledge?

As the water goes down your gullet it immediately evaporates from the top of your clammy pate and mixes with the tissue of your socks to form a richly dense cheesy pâté in your shoes.  Oh, the joys ofsummer.  “Summer breeze, makes me feel fine, blowing through the jasmine in my mind...”  Yeah?  Oh really, where’s that fucking breeze?  I’ll take the breeze if you’ve got one, but you can keep your bloody jasmine and all that darn pollen.  Nope; I’m your typical modern small-chested asthmatic weakling, riddled with allergies.  Common cold in summer and allergy in winter.  But beside that I’m fine, thanks for asking.  And how are you?

Time for a song:

And again on spotify!

Let's have it again, but better:

And... on spotify!

Oh, go on then. One more time!  And cranked up a further notch of awesomeness:

Spot' it!

Says me, and the searing keys of my burned up laptop.  There is nothing that is not a source of uncomfortable heat - the fridge radiates burning plasma; the cold water tap drips superheated fire-water; and the coolant systems of my biomechanical organs are magma chambers ready to explode.  Everything runs sweat, except my sinuses which are concreted up and abandoned.  But beside that I’m fine, thanks for asking.  And how are you?

 Blackpool tomorrow for some Pleasure at the Beach; and a day spent eating rock, floss, and dog.  There will be cool summer breeze with a slight smell of Blackpool’s dirty water, and the jolly sight of a seagull cheekily pinching an ice cream from the hand of an elderly gent wearing a knotted hanky on his head.  The breeze will blow gently through my long flowing hair, lifting up my fringe exposing a slowly receding line; follicles abandoning their posts one by one.  Fortune will have sent all thrill-seekers to join the same queues at Alton Towers, leaving the Big One free as my own personal play-thing.  All these things will happen.  I will them to happen.

Tomorrow I can report back the power of will.  The demands I have made the universe will be met, you betcha.  I’ll bring you back a donkey ride and some hen-night filth and a Wish You Were Here tattoo on my arse.