Back from the jollies, and a grand time was had by all. Except for the laptop, which appears to have died on us, either through heat stroke or more likely, as a result of a power surge following a cut. Good job the Big Yin left his behind then, complete with dodgy ‘n’.
While we were away, the Boy Wonder chicklet celebrated his eighth birthday. I’m still trying to get my head around how he got this big this fast. While musing – as I do everyday – what I did to deserve such a wonder in my life. So, by way of belated celebrations, a few tracks that remind me of him, or that he likes himself. Oh yes, one of his many talents is his stunningly good musical taste. JLS aside….
Mr Brightside – Killers
Orange Blossom Special – Johnny Cash
Seventeen - Kings of Leon
500 miles - the Proclaimers
Drowning Man – Fanfarlo
Human – Killers
I gotta feeling – Black Eyed Peas
Hey little bird – I am Kloot
Dominos - the Big Pink
Heart skipped a beat - the XX
The surprise package from the summer reading list was something dusted off from the shelves. I parked Margaret Atwood’s The Year of the Flood there for a rainy day and promptly forgot about it. But I’m delighted to have found it again, though it requires judicious application and consideration. The complex concept requires a slow and steady perusal and that too is welcome. I’ll post about it, I’m sure, once I’ve got my head round it all.
The heat of the night led to a lot of early rises on holiday, perfect for perching on the balcony with a book, or just a big pot of coffee to see in the dawn. I’d forgotten that in more southerly climes, there’s no gloaming nor loaming either. Much later than in Scotland, dark fades to grey, pausing briefly before full light flickers on. Hot follows swiftly thereafter. Bizarrely it all reminded me of this summer poem by William Morris:
Pray but one prayer for me ‘twixt thy closed lips,
Think but one thought of me up in the stars.
The summer night waneth, the morning light slips,
Faint and grey ‘twixt the leaves of the aspen, betwixt the cloud-bars
That are patiently waiting there for the dawn:
Patient and colourless, though Heaven’s gold
Waits to float through them along with the sun.
Far out in the meadows, above the young corn,
The heavy elms wait, and restless and cold
The uneasy wind rises; the roses are dun;
Through the long twilight they pray for the dawn,
Round the lone house in the midst of the corn,
Speak but one word to me over the corn,
Over the tender, bow’d locks of the corn.
This. Please give. And then give some more.