Having survived the hell of Westfields, a new shopping centre carved out of formica, like a bastard son of Stanstead airport and Brent Cross, acquired the requisite presents in the nick of time and hit the last of the impending work deadlines I settled into the Christmas season with all due aplomb. Sleeping in late, eating large plates of cake, smoked salmon and pig in a blanket and rinsing it out on the Playstation network like a new found idiot adolescent I got my energy back and turned my thoughts to bolo.
I had many drunken epiphanies and I made scant mental notes for a series of projects to launch in the new year. Who knows whether they will happen, but they sounded good to my internal ears as they were enunciated through smoke filled kitchens, leaning out the window and spending a little time away from the computer and with family and wiggly. Many ideas for things I want to write down and some I fear that must be written unless I lose them to the mists of time, or worse, they rancour in my brain. Flotsam to expunge don’t you know.
Oh well, tonight is no time for big thoughts. Arctic winds howl round the flat and the combi boiler struggles to raise the temperature enough for me to remove my scarf, put my hood down and make a sandwich. Ice under foot and the chance of slipping over precarious as I stumble up and down the stairs, laden with the last boxes of stuff from Prubast.
Its so cold, cold enough to ice your giblets my friends. Lets draw the curtains on this one. I feel a zoot beckoning and the chance of another epiphany. Arms aloft to lightning filled skies like an idiot savant searching for fractal meaning in the sight of an old man riding his bike by at 1:30 in the morning. Why would an old man be out on his bike at that time in the freezing cold? Dark things may be afoot in Ealing and there is much to consider for the Groovernort.