It cannot be true,as i am sure Hugh would come out of his cave climb aboard the first bus out of Reno and pick-a-pocket-or-two.Giving me the good news that at last a belly dancer has been found amongst the mountainous saccharine turtles and spiffy avon ladies who wander the planet in shrink fit stockings.
Out of all the fifty-two only a handful remain were i can focus more or less instantly without the aid of looking through my snail diary to see if i can awake some memory plot to fathom how the day was spent.I can certainly remember my 18th..then you could buy five pints of foaming mirth for a pound note,i was madly in love then, i could say besotted,in fact, i will say besotted past besottedness,full of five pints of foaming mirth and beyond i drove the girlfriend and her sister home, traffic lights danced before my eyes instead of seeing four i saw eight, the giggles erupted as hand and feet coordinated in some fashion towards the pedals..the van a ford full of rust bedecked with an array of builders gear,myself wearing half the shit one finds whilst grovelling amongst rubble,i was then an apprentice plumber pockets full of marbles mind full of sunken treasure,had hair down my back,many times mistook for a girl how i laugh now with practically not a hair on my head.How the body wilts,the mind well,a constant battle every day from the first rush as the alarm clock bites the bullet shags the head against the wall crumples all protest and with rhyme and reason work calls,the head lights of the corporate powers dazzle me into becoming a rabbit instead of fucking other rabbits..i fuck myself for a few coppers more..perhaps i should have been a belly dancer on the streets of chicago.
Or turned left in stead of right during those foaming mirth years of eighteen-ish,it does not pay one to dwell on if's..and if my brain was any good i would be able to remember R.Kiplings...IF....
