Troubled by a series of dreams in which I calmly awaited my imminent death. After this motif had been repeated several times I woke up and discovered it was only 2:45. Feeling a bit disturbed, I got up and had a glass of water and began to read one of the appendixes of the Tibetan Book of Living and Dying and about how an admirable Buddhist dies with lots of meditation etc. Eventually I decided to risk falling asleep again, and more attentive readers will have already noted that I survived.
The morning found me wanting to stick needles into my eyes rather than schlepp off to London. But the next pitch is on Wednesday and I am presenting the creative work, so it was a reasonably good idea for me to be there. Didn't swim again though. Meanwhile The Gnome fell asleep while I was talking to him today. Twice.
Home shortly after 8:00pm and pottered about deadheading roses and cutting back the fuchsia which had prevented my gate from closing. And as I did so I could hear church bells as well as the usual constant yarping of seagulls. It was all so English and I felt like one of the bit part characters in an Inspector Morse episode, later to be found horribly mutilated in a potting shed.
Summer nights are very noisy in the Twitten. The seagulls shriek constantly all through the night. Then there is a cat who yowls persistently and piercingly outside the house opposite till he has woken up his owners. Usually this process takes ten minutes or more, invariably around 3 o'clock, and the powerfully-lunged feline never seems to give up or get bored.
Then there are the people. The late revellers lurching along the alley and talking too loud; or the night when I heard a strange rustling which, when I looked out, there was a man sleeping on a bed of plastic bags. He was a gent too. Leaving me and the people opposite a bag of buns each for letting him stay there. Then there was the startling groaning that echoed along the Twitten last summer which turned out to be a middle aged couple pleasuring one anther in my next door neighbour's tiny patch of front garden. Or then there are the police chasing villains, or people choosing the Twitten as a venue for explosive arguments.
Despite all that... I love it here.
Below a nice crop of the viaduct shot from the weekend.
The morning found me wanting to stick needles into my eyes rather than schlepp off to London. But the next pitch is on Wednesday and I am presenting the creative work, so it was a reasonably good idea for me to be there. Didn't swim again though. Meanwhile The Gnome fell asleep while I was talking to him today. Twice.
Home shortly after 8:00pm and pottered about deadheading roses and cutting back the fuchsia which had prevented my gate from closing. And as I did so I could hear church bells as well as the usual constant yarping of seagulls. It was all so English and I felt like one of the bit part characters in an Inspector Morse episode, later to be found horribly mutilated in a potting shed.
Summer nights are very noisy in the Twitten. The seagulls shriek constantly all through the night. Then there is a cat who yowls persistently and piercingly outside the house opposite till he has woken up his owners. Usually this process takes ten minutes or more, invariably around 3 o'clock, and the powerfully-lunged feline never seems to give up or get bored.
Then there are the people. The late revellers lurching along the alley and talking too loud; or the night when I heard a strange rustling which, when I looked out, there was a man sleeping on a bed of plastic bags. He was a gent too. Leaving me and the people opposite a bag of buns each for letting him stay there. Then there was the startling groaning that echoed along the Twitten last summer which turned out to be a middle aged couple pleasuring one anther in my next door neighbour's tiny patch of front garden. Or then there are the police chasing villains, or people choosing the Twitten as a venue for explosive arguments.
Despite all that... I love it here.
Below a nice crop of the viaduct shot from the weekend.
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