The low-fat blueberry muffin of achievement
Finished my poetry manuscript this morning, and posted it off mindful of Paul Valery's comment that a poem is never finished, only abandoned. There is some excellent work in there. I have called it The Slow Tsunami, and it is about time and memory. I am now able to think about other things... But find myself a bit brain dead after the effort. So after chatting to Sonia about Egypt and Hitler, I went for a long walk about in Brighton, pausing to lurk in a cafe with my laptop drinking an Americano and treating myself to a low fat blueberry muffin in celebration.
Through the Pavilion gardens where a duo of buskers were playing saxophone and one of those large African thumb piano things. The music was heavenly, and even I was forced to chuck a pound in their hat. Then to the pier marvelling at the bright low sun in a blue and cloudless sky. My favourite merry go round was being dismantled and all the horses were stacked together. The fairground part of the pier takes on a distinctly Ray Bradburyish feel when there are few people about. Everything gleamed in the low sun with a an empty jollity that is a hair away from creepy.
Caught a bus home after the luxury of mooching, to do the less enjoyable business of purchasing Landlords insurance for the Twitten, which confirmed for me that the insurance business is a nest of obfuscating weasels. Calliope persistently climbing onto my desk as I talked, until I had to sling her off with a roar of rage, rather alarming the person spouting their robotic insurance guff on the other end of the phone.
Several sneezing fits as the day wore on as I have a slight cold. Made a mash of butternut squash, potatoes and carrots tonight, to supply Lorraine's craving for mashed things, and broccoli and Brussels sprouts and bits of baked chicken. We sat on the sofa gleaming with vitamins as we watched Masterchef.
To bed sniffing, and being told by Lorraine that I don't have a cold.
Below some photos from the pier, dodgems, strange inflatable things, and at the bottom a stampede of horses going into storage.
Through the Pavilion gardens where a duo of buskers were playing saxophone and one of those large African thumb piano things. The music was heavenly, and even I was forced to chuck a pound in their hat. Then to the pier marvelling at the bright low sun in a blue and cloudless sky. My favourite merry go round was being dismantled and all the horses were stacked together. The fairground part of the pier takes on a distinctly Ray Bradburyish feel when there are few people about. Everything gleamed in the low sun with a an empty jollity that is a hair away from creepy.
Caught a bus home after the luxury of mooching, to do the less enjoyable business of purchasing Landlords insurance for the Twitten, which confirmed for me that the insurance business is a nest of obfuscating weasels. Calliope persistently climbing onto my desk as I talked, until I had to sling her off with a roar of rage, rather alarming the person spouting their robotic insurance guff on the other end of the phone.
Several sneezing fits as the day wore on as I have a slight cold. Made a mash of butternut squash, potatoes and carrots tonight, to supply Lorraine's craving for mashed things, and broccoli and Brussels sprouts and bits of baked chicken. We sat on the sofa gleaming with vitamins as we watched Masterchef.
To bed sniffing, and being told by Lorraine that I don't have a cold.
Below some photos from the pier, dodgems, strange inflatable things, and at the bottom a stampede of horses going into storage.
Comments