Bolshy hare refuses to sit in the middle of my carefully framed picture.
Despite my huge collection of green, house points they still want their pounds of taxation flesh to pay for their war games elsewhere. My sacrifices in savings the planet are hurled back in my face by pop groups and billionaires jetting around the world on a whim. Vast numbers of elephant seals now use air travel as a shortcut to their packed basking beaches. Lemmings to the slaughter. Cancer or heart attack? Cancer or heart attack? Eeny meeny... A difficult choice when you are flipping monopoly money coins and 'ealth and warfare always pays the bills. "Get annuver rand in, John!"
My walk was crowded with so many words and birds that I soon lost count. Several contacts have recently expressed warm approval of my clumsy choices of words on my blogs. While I may well be stuffed to the gills with words, all desperate to escape their bondage, I am torn between fear of abuse and abject cliché. For example: If I said that young coots ducked instinctively as a dam buster swallow came in low and fast on a well-rehearsed skim of the church pond I might easily be accused of verbal diarrhoea. Nay even prolixity!
Diffuse forms of words, so taken to the extreme, that they resemble a medieval chapel so over-adorned with trinkets and trifles that all sense of eternity and space are lost. The words tumble out with such haste, that they trip over each other in their eagerness to become the new center of attention. I could say that today's sky was high and bright but that the artist in residence to the weather gods had used too many brush strokes. So that his broad canvas had become clogged with over-exuberant stippling for its own sake. Resulting in a rather ill-defined, misty glow reminiscent of some 20th century daub.
My memory is now so poor that I can rarely retain my wordy ideas in my slippery, mental grasp. I am like an elderly cartoonist juggling to keep his speech bubbles aloft. My morning rambles are often interrupted with a sudden rush of blousy adjectives. They collapse and form again but have usually flown despite my attempts to firm them into a manageable blob before they are lost forever. "In one ear and out of the other," sums it up quite nicely. I believe my natural verbosity is best constrained by a lack of malice aforethought. Simply allowing the ideas to flow as I type has much greater spontaneity. Without leaving the reader with a distinct whiff of; "This bloke is trying much too hard to impress!"
The sticky warmth did not easily recoil to the fidgety wind. Which sought avenues through hedge and furrowed gap. So that the trees moved to invisible gyres amongst their dark underskirts and soaring lacy hats. The birch leaves tremble like aspen and poplar in the gull-filled breeze. The din of birds softly envelopes the unlikely tramp in gaudy polyester jacket and concealing, supermarket-bought, wraparound sunglasses. His ungainly stride indelibly scarred by time and ill-fitting footwear. From a lost generation of youthful hippy foppishness and endless, Cuban heeled, foibles of podiatristic torture. Perhaps not.
His flimsy jacket bulges and sways with the twin burdens of camera and mobile phone. Anchoring the wannabe spinnaker which would otherwise, willfully loft his cheap sports attire given the slightest chance. Sweat prickles between his shoulder blades as he endlessly debates with himself whether to remove his all-too-cosy, baseball cap. Whether to suffer the instant, blinding headache of un-shielded sunlight or let loose the untidy mop of grey-blond hair. Now led so badly awry by breeze and steamy, crumpled kasket. Hmmm.
The temperature rocketed from 60 to 70F in the time it took to spoon down my deliberately soggy, organic, hand-mixed muesli with lashings of low fat organic milk. I had only just enough time to swallow my ritual, instant, black coffee, eye-can-opener. It took another couple of hours to reach 75F. So it has already lost its momentum.
The Head Gardener is cajoling me with dire warnings as to the consequences of failing to plaster enough SPF50 onto my person to bring a charging bull to its knees. I am reminded, at great length, that my neck could easily pass for a cross between faux 1970's Jacobean oak beams and a genuine, antique mahogany baluster. Since I didn't get where I am today, by ignoring "She who must be obeyed," I had better try to find the bløødy trowel!
Once safely protected with an excess of glop, I was cast out of the tradesman's entrance on a fool's errand. Where I was soon overtaken by a colourfully dressed cyclist with legs like an Elizabethan dining table. He promptly rode into the distance with less effort than if he had been riding an electric motorcycle. Later, an elderly lady, of more than ample girth, was catching me rather too quickly on a rise until she suddenly turned off. I had just enough time to glimpse a front hub electric motor and battery pack on the rear rack so my flagging confidence was swiftly re-buoyed. The wind came and went as I finished my sunny triangle for 20 miles in total. It feels tropically clammy out there at 77F, 25C. How was it for you?