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Quiche' chips and mushy peas:

Beyond the window of my bunker, out there,on a rain sodden Sunday morning.

Silvery beads cling to a blue plastic coated clothes line. Old Larchie absorbs the moisture of the elements like an old sponge and the concrete posts that have supported him for so long now turned a dirty grey colour. The tin shed and the over-hanging sheets of the roof with their gnarled edges has lost it's red rust colour and have now taken on a deep dark chocolate tone. The absence of a door exposes the ghostly silent blackness within.

The Stalk-monsters have gone now, cleared away by the old man next door. Those faithful old canes will have been put away for another year. The wind-fallen apples that litter the floor slowly decompose and, with the constant soakings from the elements, shall, eventually become part of the soil from whence they came. There's a morbidity about it all some how, having lived died and now returning to the earth. The cycles and the seasons, they come and they go and we all have our time.

As i boarded my bus yesterday and made for the top deck i fell as i reached the top step, went sprawling into the seat opposite the gangway and a woman fussed and pestered. "Are you okay?" She asked more than once looking back from a seat at the front. "Yes, i fine thanks". Okay? Okay? I was bloody annoyed. Occurrences of that are nuisance, but that's all.

I wish i'd bought some relish when i'd done my shopping yesterday. I've seem to have got into a routine of drizzling olive oil infused with a concoction herbs and spices over my hot meals. Maybe it's the dryness of my mouth, caused by having consumed two litres of cider yesterday, or having slept until almost lunchtime, or both. But there are times when only a good helping of red onion relish cold from the fridge will do and now is one of those times, but one must eat.

I have a new friend now, Woodgate Cider. That is not to say that i have fallen out with or tired of my good old pal Crumpton Oaks, no way, never ever. Indeed, i have been stocking up the cabinet here in the bunker with both and there shall be no preference shown towards either. Times to be shared through out the Christmas period.

The radio plays classic, Woodgate settles my lunch, and another sleepy Sunday drifts gently by.



Nope, no diary.
It's all ( as soul to soul quaintly put it) here and now.

All gone and forgotten, as i shall/we shall eventually be.

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