bichoose (bichoose) wrote,

Monday 20th August 2007.

As i journeyed to work this morning,one eye impatient for the yoke constructed around my shoulders to feel the lashing protestant work ethic bellowing loud,a touch of the forelock in a slight bow to the mightily well tongue-stoned Oliver, whom has crossed the line,risen to become work house manager asking for more than can fit in a wooden bowl,how quickly they forget their roots.
The other eye a lazy bugger,a bit of a rogue, sniffing the aftermath fumes rising from the chardonnay bottle pictured a ghost some one hundred yards in front walking down the straight white line, society paints to keep the national health bills in check,the head kept turning,of the few cars on the road at that death hour the shadow broke swerving across the line of fire,then back as the headlights died across the shop fronts.On the bend i lost sight,perhaps whatever had mounted a camel riding hell for leather for some remote Australian out back in search of more than one hump.
I found this vision rather strange,the purpose was straight forward not an inch out except for searchlight swerve..not a drunk returning from a night out with cat tails gleaming from grey slate roofs,no waving of the arms,as drunks usually do when wandering around the road in the demon warm can of trickled ale lingering in the swirl of the can bottom,a can held in sway for ages knowing it is the very last one on the planet, yes i have done it myself arms a kimbo singing daft songs to myself falling in the bushes.No this one had speed,a scented journey already mapped out.But then a ghost would not swerve for car headlights or would it..??..perhaps instead the final journey would have been to join the siege troops searching the Nevada desert seeking oust him into the rain-sodden urban sprawl the concubine of the rainy feast on cracked pavements rolling cans of Carling a larger so puce not even goblins would wash their socks in such bubbling mirth.
Perhaps the vision had just finished a family Sunday lunch,where pepper is just not on the table but hangs in the air,burst forth from under the napkin, cap in hand.." what do you mean your different" ..." your father and me "..the eyes falter,the fingers fidget,shoe laces restrung in the minds eye,the pocket full of conkers, string, old American Civil War Cards curl still smelling of that aweful chewing gum, fit only to bolster the marbles in the back pocket and then there are Dobbers...yes Dobbers....No Grizzly Adams then only the haunting school playground grid top bent, dobbers were saved until last, the most prized possession in the pre-television must watch era,the tension of young lads all in hand-me-downs as nimble fingers flicked dobbers across the grid warning then of germs,gassed below....Tonto and the lone ranger could wait for the last dobber to roll.

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