Londoner, wanderer, wonderer, wannabe writer
Were I the sort of bloke given to romanticism I might describe these April nights in Goa as sultry and steamy affairs. The reality is that they are long, sleepless and sweaty. The only way I manage any shut eye is to lie on my bed naked as Adam before the fall with the fan … More When the bubble bursts
The way she danced on a summer evening The shape of her fingers, traced by mine Those eyes that sparkled Perspiration mingling The peace of early morning, Her breathing a song I lost myself there.
Take a look at the picture, some sixties hippie? Actually this photo was taken in 1917. The fella in the photo was one of the ‘Nature Boys’ a small bunch of guys who in the early years of the twentieth century were perhaps what you might call proto-hippies, or forefathers of the flower power generation, and maybe much more besides.
… More Nature Boys
We are the music-makers And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers And sitting by desolate streams; World losers and world forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams: Yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world for ever, it seems. We, in the ages lying In the buried past of … More Dreamer in the Dream
As humans we imagine ourselves above all other animals as a pinnacle of evolution, but when you really think about it that idea is utter bollocks. I say this because you need only look towards the animal world & there you find infinitely more sensible creatures, take for instance the common or garden Swallow. This little … More South for Winter
I fancy watching a movie, so google away and up pops Mike Leigh’s Peterloo, it looks worth a punt, for the life of me I remember next to nothing about Peterloo from my history, some vague idea about it being about a bunch of blokes from up north with pitchforks, and complaints … More Snowflake in the Rain
Truth Mark Twain said is stranger than fiction, because fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities, truth is not. A chap by the name of Louis Hardin that I’ve recently read about seemed to have a life that echoed Twains adage rather well. Louis was born in 1916, in Marysville a sleepy little town in … More Howling at the Moon.
Winter has settled here in London and the clocks tick inexorably towards the end of another year. The people of London who in summer sported t shirts and shorts now wrap themselves in thick coats and scarves and wooly hats. The Cafes that grew in spring and flowered in summer, when tables and chairs spilled … More Gypsy
London November Three days of swimming has not got any easier or made me feel any fitter, I am still knackered and I see no improvement in the slightest. Clearly I was hoping for a fitness miracle and the reality is that there’s a long way to go. Day 4 and I am on my … More Speakeasy
OK today I am getting my arse in gear. I’ve spent the last few months talking to myself and anyone unlucky enough to be with me for more than five minutes about just one subject, my lack of focus and my lethargy/borderline miserableness doing anything about it. I moan about needing to do stuff ( … More Walrus
