Suffer the Little Children

Yesterday afternoon, due to a slight meltdown on my part, LoH and I were drinking wine in an impromptu picnic area we had erected behind the bins. The magpies were clattering like football rattles from the chimneys all around, Spatchcock was eating the coriander and the sweet breeze tempered the mugging sun. We sat and smoked and soaked and supped and smiled with our eyes shut until we heard the voices of the local children, one screaming gleefully “Who’s had sex?” and the others hollering “Me! Meeee!”

Today my brain is being a little bastard, walking up the walls and scratching at the ceiling, picking and flicking and faffing with its socks. It wants to go outside and stuff its pockets with crab apples and toads, but it has to stay inside and sit quietly with its hands on its head. Later I will reward it with a stroll to the shop to buy tobacco and cheese and Hundreds and Thousands, but there are many words to go before we can rest.