Graham had a disturbed night, dreaming of horrid zombies, so he says, so we rose late, got going later, and have drifted later and later as the day has trickled past. A trip to the Swansea retail park for Screwfix and a new-to-me branch of the bank didn’t help and I drove home in an alarmingly confused state. I can do that happily and safely on familiar roads in daylight, which is just as well.
The new branch of the bank is a major step forward. It’s small, friendly, not buzzing with electronics, and I can park the car right outside the door, which is marvellous. Especially when you drive up just in time for a heavy hail storm.
We’re having rather a lot of hail storms just now. I don’t like ‘em. I find them threatening and oxygen-robbing things and, normally, I stay inside, sheltering, rather than risk dashing through such a hostile environment. Cold, painful, and slippery. And not a little frightening. Give me zombies over hail storms any day. Unless they’re zombie snakes, of course, but the less said about that the better.
As we drove off the radio was giving air time to some American poet or other, much to Graham’s horror. “Bloody time-wasting poets get everywhere these days,” he said. “Time they were all taught a lesson in real life.”
“I thought it was us poets what give out lessons in real life?”
“You gotta be joking. Just listen to this geezer…”
I listened. Graham is right. Time some poets were taught a lesson in real life.
[Names and identifying details of offending poets suppressed in the interests of good taste and strawberry blancmange.]
John, you’re the only poet I like anyway.
Sorry, kinda wondering, is blancmange a disease of dogs or….?
;^)
I love strawberry blancmange.And you’re both right about some of these poets.
Oh, Golly!!!! My mother used to make blancmange out of milk and a seaweed called “Irish Moss,” heated gently and stirred forever (or so it seemed to a small child). It was lovely stuff, custardy without the eggy taste.
Never with strawberries here tho.