yammering

oh, well, whatever . . .

while the blacksmiths were making butterflies

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Yesterday, it being Sunday again, Margaret went over to Brenda’s to plan the great internet slipper caper and perhaps also to discuss new age mullarkey and the permanent revolution. It was cooler and misty in the morning. I biked up the coast to Lynemouth. There was a surprisingly brisk northerly wind. At QE II park in Ashington I stopped to look at all the swans and the windsurfers. A passing man from Bristol began telling me that his wife had two horses and one had an incurable hoof complaint and was now only going to be kept by her as a companion. He was flying back down this afternoon. He told me he had a mountain bike at home and took his two chocolate labradors out for a walk with him in the fields where he lived.

When I got home the sun was out. I made myself a cappucinno and went out into the back garden with the newspapers. I sat in the sun on a green plastic chair, listening to the gurgling trickle of Hugo’s waterfall. A red admiral came over the fence and clipped its way across the lawn. The wind occasionally swished and whispered through the whitebeam and the climbing rose. Pigeons cooed while starlings and other small birds chirrupped and cheeped incessantly, their music now and again punctuated by a squawk or the shriek of a passing gull. In the distance a motorbike rasped as it accelerated away, and soon afterwards I could hear the faint bleating of a lorry’s reversing warning. De Kooning wandered out like a surly delinquent and wrapped his tail briefly around the leg on my chair before wandering over to the shadow of the box bush and flopping down.  Behind him the big flowery hearts of the pale rhododendron blooms swayed and teetered in the breeze.

Hugo was out and the station was peaceful and deserted. It was probably at its best this way, and maybe this was the way Hugo conceived it should be. But I knew that later he would return and as if possessed by some hyperactive industrial poltergeist find himself with a hammer or a saw or a cordless drill in his hand. Perhaps this is the paradox of Hugo’s garden, that at the moment he enters its accidental ramshackle perfection it is ruined by the very presence it was meant to accommodate, that of Hugo, its creator. But for now at least all was quiet.

Yesterday the newspapers all agreed that things are looking bleak for Gordon and that now is the fag end of New Labour.

 

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Written by yammering

May 13, 2008 at 7:13 am

Posted in Uncategorized

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