Lemon yellow sun. Arms raised in a vee. It’s either full on summer or I’ve walked into a Pearl Jam song.
I’ve just asked a piece of seaweed – it’s summer. But as solstice is only a few days away the nights will be drawing in very soon and we’ll all need our thermals next week. Ha ha, you think I’m joking because you forget I live in England.
I sat under a tree in the grounds of one of my favourite Exeter pubs today, ate an yuge lunch of roasted comestibles and drank a single pint of beery liquid. All very sociable eh? Not really, I went on my own and apart from ordering food and beery liquid I spoke to nobody. I listened to people’s conversations instead and on the whole the mundanity of their exchanges made me increasingly content not to be involved.
There was that guy plotting to murder John Lennon. I don’t think we need fear him, Lennon is already dead. Or is he? Maybe he’s on a tropical island with Elvis and Diana and Andy Gibb and the plotting man knows how to get to the island? I still don’t think we need fear him: he’s a figment of my imagination.