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From my window;

The window that is, of my little box-room. I refer to it affectionately as, " the bunker". No not the window, the room f'chris' sakes. I call the room my bunker. Oh dear, bear with me eh. It's Sunday lunchtime and things are a little hazy, but the mist IS clearing.
Just staying awake all day on a Saturday, having been awake since mid-afternoon and worked a Friday night-shift, outside battling the elements ( fooking cold ones at that) i won't dwell on it but well, it's tiring, y'know? Now, where was i? Oh yes, the window. The bunker-window, my view with a room, and first off it's those leaf-monsters or rather, what remains of those once productive runner-bean wigwam set-ups. You know, three canes set a foot or so apart at the base, then tied together at the tips to support the bean-stalks.
Now, after a few days of bitter cold winds and nights of temperatures that bordered on freezing ( i know, i was out there working in it ) the few remaining leaves hang like boiled cabbage ( Savoy. Of course ) have reduced those leafy stooges to pillars of twitch. Ghosts of their former selves and they actually look quite eerie, bedraggled. Wouldn't want to see those things suddenly appearing out of the fog whilst hungover from a boozy night before.

Behind them stands Larchie.

Good old reliable, dependable, Larchy. The colour his wood-stain is fading, a fresh coating wouldn't go amiss, he has been there a few years now, more years than i care to remember, and it's beginning to show. But, he's there, tall and upright, loud and proud, like some old sentry of yesteryear. If only he could talk eh? What do you know Larchie? What do you know?

Beyond old Larchie, into the garden two doors up stands a shed. To call it a shed requires imagination. It just stands there idle. A box-shaped construction of corrugated tin. With sloping over-hanging roof and no door.
I love the sight of that old thing. Poor old neglected tinnie.
I suppose that it's an affection that harks back to my childhood. Long summer days roaming the fields and an allotment area that, sold to developers to make way for an industrial estate, and left to it's own devices, was a great place to play.
What wouldn't give for a cosy little garden shed with that tin exterior with it's gnarled edges. Even i can dream.

And beyond that? I can't really see much from here, nor would i want to, i think. " Sink-estates", see one and you've seen them all.

Dithering with my new best friend Woodgate Cider, courtesy of the new Lidl store that just oponed in Stugely,and that's another story.

Bunker daze.



loved it man....going my fav pub tomorrow...i will toast to your good health when i'm pissed and offer some unsuspecting bystander my philosophy on life and leave him/her all a dither

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