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Abigail's blow-job;

Storm Abigail that is.

The Leaf-monsters, that are what remains of next doors' runner bean stalks, with they're green an yellow overcoats, partly sheltered by old Larchie, dance and sway to her tune.
My chestnut tree with just a few remaining dark brown wizened leaves is all but bare, she seems to be winning that one. And yet, that big old Sycamore at the top of the garden seems to have barely shed a leaf. Although, on closer inspection i can see that the green colour of the leaves has faded and look as though they are becoming quite brittle. Those winged seed pods are long gone.

I hang out my washing, it's a good day for drying so come on Abigail, BLOW.

And the radio plays classic.

It seems so cold dull and grey out there. Mid-day feels like dusk.
Time of year i suppose.

And that's it, basically.

I sit, i sot, bless you Taurus, and i shall prepare dinner later.
I just googled "sot". I do that sometimes. I wonder about shit like that. I mean "sot", what sort of a word is that?
Anyway, having googled it, i have a way to go. Jeez!

The brown stuff flows and the clock tix.

Got my washing dry. Thanx Abigail. Job done.

Fried onions. Caramelized in my black arsed frying pan,. To mix with my minced lamb and put through a grinder. Dither's cheapo Sunday roast.

My life,
you could write it on a rizla.


dither...

Comments

as a blog entry gritty and honest...not honest in the sense of not made up but honest in the approach to a topic... i get the feeling as you wrote it you were living it in more ways than one...
 
I have to be honest jen,
it could be worse.
I'm just old.
At least i got old, eh?
I suppose that's something.
But it has been oh so boring.
I played it safe.
 
Oh dear,
As Abigail calms herself, another storm rolls in.
Britain is set to be lashed 80 mph. gales and there flood warnings.
This bad-boy means business.
 
Barney;

They've named this one Barney. And there'll be lots of rubble i reckon.
 

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dither
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