As part of a well organised and ongoing plan to tidy their house and clutter my own impossibly small hen coop by proxy my parents often cunningly palm surplus odd objects onto me whenever I’m able to visit them. Some are presented at random and for which the required reaction seems to be to emote as if this were a mini Christmas present moment. Others are slipped into my bag for me to discover and ponder at my leisure upon later discovery.
It’s hard to wipe from my memory the time I found approximately twenty sachets of medicinal powders intended to help ease constipation wrapped tightly in a rubber band in my bag with the attached note from my Mum saying “thought you might find these useful”. It makes me wonder sometimes quite what my parents think of me let alone the possibility that I may give the distinct impression to anybody that meets me that constipation may be a large part of my life’s journey.
The latest booty is presented here…
An unused miniature shoe polisher circa who knows when), Two unused complimentary matches, one from The Scarlet Coat Restaurant in Bristol (circa 70′s?)and the other from The Green Park Hotel Harrogate (circa early 80′s?).
I managed to avoid a 1990′s vintage edition of the Viking Direct catalogue on this occasion.
A radio channel Russian roulette served me Roger Whittaker’s The Last Farewell. When I was younger I’d grab that dial and race down the band to anywhere else. Late onset maturity has me listening to the lyrics for probably the first time.
The ideological music snobbery of youth gives way to a desire to listen. How very progressive of me (my mock cynicism floweth over).
I am though left with a strange desire to whistle loudly in a khaki outfit.
Image by Mark Faviell Photos under this creative commons licence
We listened to the new Bowie album today. We’ve both been Bowie appreciative for many many years but this one is not so far tickling my musical ear drums. Maybe it’ll take a few listens. I mean I was initially very cool about Heathen but came round after repeated listening.
It’s sad I feel like this after a 10 year wait since the last album and having been a keen listener to his output since my per teen days but then that’s music I suppose.
Much like food and humour we all like different things at different times.
A kind soul who I met barely 6 weeks ago and with whom I shared silence, a cup of tea and a car lift died yesterday suddenly and unexpectedly.
I have been moved to even have known him for such a short time. For those that knew him better and for longer I hope his life and his actions during it speak for him and help to ease the grief and sense of loss.
I dreamt that Rex Harrison was singing in that talk-singing way he had. He was singing Invisible Sun as usually performed by The Police. He was placing his quizical vocal emphasis on a very literal recital of the lyrics ala ‘Why can’t a woman be more like a man’.
Wilfred Hyde White was lurking silently.
I was in this (a prematurely air conditioned) supermarket and the in store radio was playing The Fool On The Hill by The Beatles and as I looked at the many jacked up prices I was reminded that this particular establishment clearly felt I was that fool.
I’ve been hearing what sounded like a very far away car alarm throughout the morning. I’ve just realised it’s me breathing out. Welcome to my asthma world.