Heading for the last round up
Heading for the last round up
A morning dawns. Brian Cant mellifluously singing the songs of Camberwick Green & Trumpton, which is the CD elevated to wake up alarm call, coffee from a bakers with little to be described as coffee in it, but icing-sugared ring doughnuts too, and my size 8 nearly crushing a dead bird beneath it, blindly. A bird I’d never seen before, not that my memory of mumma nature is up too much; as a child I could name many, many of the trees, many, many of the birds, but do very little of anything practical. Now I cannot name this oiseau, totally still and injured and reposing on the dusty Worthing pavement. Cursing myself for lack of camera and not even in a position for a quick sketch, balancing time clock and scalding coffee I can only rapidly plough through RSPB and Collins and whatever mater we have on the shelves in hopes of an indentikit birdwatch match afore me brain goes belly up and I forget the form and colours. I’ve satisfied myself it’s probably a Yellow Wagtail, and a female one, a bird I don’t believe I’ve ever seen before, and very frail, and fine and beautiful.
Coming back to Trumpton et al, they had a song for every possible profession in a small village/town community, except an undertakers…old puppets never die, they just get rusty hinges? Maybe I should sketch some verses out…
‘The Funeral Hearse’ (after ‘The Baker’s Van’)
Driving along with the Funeral Hearse,
In the bone shakin’, grave makin’ funeral hearse,
Every coffin to carry you off in
Will rattle all night
Until we read your last rites,
With the Funeral Hearse
Could things be worse?
In the bone shakin’, grave makin’ Funeral Hearse.
Driving along the Funeral Hearse
In the bone shakin’, grave makin’ funeral hearse
Away to the grave
To eternally lay
Oh the money you’ll save
Laying dead in a grave
After the Undertaking Man
In his Undertaking Van,
In the bone shakin’ grave makin’
Undertaking Van.
Had a TERRIBLE dream…
Lastly…’I can’t believe it’s not butter indeed’…had to buy some of this ear-waxy muck as local shop had run out of the real stuff. Let me jut say that butter melt into the toast and doesn’t lie there like some iridescent snot.
on Tuesday night, and horribly life like it were too, totally real-life believable right up to the revolting end; Dreamt a whole new courtship with ex, not just a replay of the last video nasty, but a whole new ‘let’s make up and be friendly’ scenario, which ended up in romance, forgiveness, and shriek (!), remarriage. All the supposedly idyllic parts of the scenario, just like before descended into hellish mithering as soon as the deed was done and I was battered by acid tongue and fear and needless guilt until I awoke, gasping like a landed and sweat-ridden fish, barbed hook in chest and thankfully alone, though it took a few long seconds to come back out of a fresh hades and into an old, but sweet reality. Cripes. Gave me an unearthly appetite though; demolished a super-size fry up at Moto-moto in Trafalgar Street. I heartily recommend the place.