Bang, tick-tock, ding-dong, burp, jingle, clink, clatter, whisper, whip, choke, gasp, joke, cow, moo, cow-cow… cowcowcowcowcowcowcowcowcowcowcow.

This starts and ends with me.

She stormed in angry as all hell.
‘You ruined my life!’ She yelled.
‘We ruined each-others lives!’ I yelled back.
A moment opened up around our honesty; my pathetic retort, we burst out laughing.

Here’s a topic close to home

What is a flag? What does it represent? What does it do?
What is blood? What does it represent? What does it symbolise?
If you think about what a thing is and what it signifies on it’s own, you begin to wonder at the complexity of combining two things.

They might be seen as complicated;
as that’s when there are lots of parts.
While complexity shows a fundamental change in state.
Something that cannot be reversed or restored to its original way of being.
Blood is not free flowing, as if from a tap.
Should you ask for the blood of others, you may get more than you wished.
How can you stop the bleeding?
A flag could be a tourniquet.
A flag could be a sponge.
A flag could be a thin rug.

——————————————————————————————————————-

Let me verb that noun for you.
You ask – what is an exchange?
I could ask: What is a doorway?
I could ask: What is a chair.

Doorways are great, because they are the absence of a wall; they are an opening, a description, an idea.
A chair, is something you sit on.
An exchange is a trade, a swap, an action, a verb.


——————————————————————————————–

Age is natures race.

——————————————————————————————–

I jumped onto my phone for a reason and now that reason is gone.

————————————————————————————————

Ruin your life, you have five minutes (using only your phone).

Groups and groups and groups and grrrr and youpes and ropes and oops.

You can’t noun a verb.

Yes I can, it’s a hear!

Whenever I read something out-loud, the people around me, immediately stop listening.

That was the fist line a book I picked up, just last week. It was awful, but I read on because I’d been told it was a classic.

‘A useful part of the canon’

‘A masterpiece’

I awoke, it was Thursday. My eyes were puffy from the combination of drink, sun and sleep. I felt like I’d been parked-into myself. Bumper to bumper in my own body. The smell of Aaron burning crumpets downstairs told me it was just before 9am. We’d both be late.

There it was!
All temperature and temperament.
The Slight, Sleight Goose.
It stood and argued the firmament.
Feathery and obtuse.
Just because.

The highest of high society was called to order on the first day of the month, February 2021. Many had perished in the fires and the flood that proceeded. Tropical storms had ripped right though the quaint town south of Barbados. A tumult, without relief for twenty six consecutive days. Electrical poles were ripped from the ground by strong winds that suspended and slung about debris like it was in an underwater vortex. Gravity seeming to ebb and flow at whim. The eye of the storm conveniently situated itself overs Parchfield manor, a white two-storey gettaway, for the white haired and weary hearted governor of the neighbouring Barbados. Being on holiday at the time, to escape the heat of summer and an investigation from internal affairs. Prayers of many languages could be heard in muffled sobs, perhaps coming from inside the manor and under the wooden staircase. The Manors occupancy had risen to bursting point, as if it were an ark upon the sole hill of salvation. Many of the irregular tenants were of either a political or intellectual background making up the greater portion of the day to day haut monde. This would be the governor’s very own renaissance as the front door burst in from it’s hinges in a gust that seemed only to re-double in force. Bodies were flung everywhich way as clinging hands gave way and people found themselves sliding down the hall, out the back door and into the neighbouring field. Fragments from stained glass windows mixed with ordinary wood-chips in the filed and the grass shoots bent and bounced without pattern.

“You can go”

I’ve broken my collarbone.

Dad says: Broken legs are worse

B says: I’m pregnant.

A says: I have a new motor bike!

One shouldn’t compare. It’s all news. Relevant. Now I sit about, right arm in a sling. Wishing I took it a bit slower, careful. Paid leave is a blessing – working away, accumulating time off if anything goes wrong. And now it has, bone mending time. Some scrabble and sitting about. Catching up on old plans, a time to read. Shooting pains, no sports to speak of – maybe a walk and a tid bit of shopping. Destroyed from force, shoulder barging the earth with all my might. Swapping positions with my mountain bike over a gradual set of sweet jumps. Rookie mistake, trap for new players. And now I can’t sleep comfortably, pained splintering prickles in my skin.