|
|
Two entries in rapid succession. How unlike me. Considering the state of my cranium, at this point, it's probably better to get this going and take care of business. Washing clothes. Picking peppers. Prepping the engine block for head transplant. I'd much prefer a Bloody Mary and some futon time... since my head is thundering. And no lightning evident. This has been the weekend of the Prodigal Tools. How strange. I'd left my flashlight/weapon at the last party I'd DJ'ed, and never expected to see it again... only to have it returned to me at the studio on Friday. Nice. Yesterday, getting back into the car at the hardware store, a shadowy figure approached... Jim, the owner of the garden where the yellow scotch bonnets live. In hand, the pruning shears that I'd laid down absentmindedly back in Spring, which instantly camouflaged themselves. Brilliant. I guess they weren't ready to leave, yet. In my hungover reverie, I'm thinking about Biggles' worries at the party, last night. Since he's been living in this country, under the radar, the DMV is clamping down on licenses... and he thinks that this may be the last straw that sends him back to Old Blighty. After all this time, and with south London accent intact, he may as well be American. Except for the Arsenal obsession. And the punk thing. We'll be poorer for it, if it transpires. Plus �a change.  The tartan of clan MacDonald... a bit of family history. One small country, a million flannel plaid designs.
|
|
|
