Five thirty in the morning only the gates of my mind crash in tune to the ticking clock, i can hear the bubbles pinging from a just opened can of IRN-BRU..perhaps one of the better things to flow from Scotland rather than the wee beastie eight legged haggis. Galleries of Pink Galahs gather too, the thoughts of Sissy, Winnie-The-Poo, King Canute, and The Last Samurai in stuttered periods influx thier own ungagged wants on this old body. Letters from Lord Byron...whisper from his pages...Adversity is the first path to trust...
Naughty People are born on to this planet every day it has survived Adlof Hitler, Stalin, Paul Pot, and many others over the centuries yet the sun rises each day...Hope..is the word none of them have managed to remove from the Dictionary. I have lived under the Tory whip in this country for most of my life Bevin called them worse than vermin, each time i vote and my cross is defeated Hope stutters for a short while then once more rises it may only take a flower in the hedgerows a sip of IRN-BRU...to blush away the Blue cloud which hounds this land...Richard Carlson..wrote don't sweat the small stuff...Every Magazine i have pushed through letter boxes this week has had Trump's face on most have been economic, how to save or make money during his time..the most interesting one asked where will we be in sixty years time..that would make me one hundred and twenty years old....even i do not expect to be here tapping away at these keys....America will survive.
it is time for me to put his name in a box tie the lid on with a pink ribbon and perhaps forget him until he actually spends his first night in the White House....For the ticking clock tells me the greatrest festive season for myself is roaring over the hill..there was a time when i shared a bed with someone who hated Christmas with a cross of ice...i survived....Hope i think was the word...So Goeth...