Sundays moved at such a snails pace even they fell asleep.....every second moved into the stratosphere and back again in slow motion you could reach out touch time, bring it in on your palm kiss it, and blow it out as if every tinniness had been used up in one sun drenched orgasm....the only fraught time was the family Sunday Dinner...i am was is an only child sat between two adults whom should not have been together the feelings in ones mind back then, you stuffed into your pockets..children at that time were still seen and not heard surviving the evening meal was at times a feat impossible without breaking every second into brittle stuttered anguish.English cooking during that period was boil it to death so that every vegetable came out screaming..for fucks sake i surrender...roast beef looked like Elephant dung and probably tasted such...
There were thankful things...faith was never mentioned..not a Bible came anywhere near the front door....i had a rich imagination whom was and perhaps still is my best friend..this imagination has carried me through much elephant dung, heaped far higher than the empire states building...carved out in steps i could walk to the moon and back...my imagination is my Agincourt cloth my two fingers to the world,perhaps some people call it vanity, perhaps being selfish..but there again perhaps it is simply Trinity Sunday today.
