Down the aisles of the organplaying wood

Happy breakfasting as this was non-fasting day. Having the stripped down days, does make you realise just how much food you post into your GI tract every day. This did not stop me buying hot cross buns. Another day of quiet work progress writing about fashion and marketing, followed by a spot of admin and degree of the currently-obligatory brain-deadness this afternoon. 

Lorraine beset by job applications again, but Rosie came by and we sauntered off to the Shahi, as it seemed rude not to. Discussing our experiences of crime; Lorraine waking up in the morning to an intruder when she was a nurse and doing night shifts. Rosie having her house invaded by two late teenage girls, one of whom attacked her.

Have been re-reading the opening to Under Milk Wood at bedtime this week. I find it oddly comforting, in its evocation of a world that seems long gone now. Dylan Thomas is unfashionable at the time of writing, but there was some wild and lovely music in his words, and you can spot a Thomas poem from a hundred yards. He had a voice and you just have to read phrases aloud to yourself, like this from the opening monologue from Under Milk Wood: 

Young girls lie bedded soft or glide in their dreams, with rings and trousseaux, bridesmaided by glowworms down the aisles of the organplaying wood. The boys are dreaming wicked or of the bucking ranches of the night and the jollyrodgered sea. And the anthracite statues of the horses sleep in the fields,and the cows in the byres, and the dogs in the wetnosed yards; and the cats nap in the slant corners or lope sly, streaking and needling, on the one cloud of the roofs.