thursday

Tuna

The pungent perfume of an open tin of tuna on your kitchen bench, that was what was familiar in the carriage.

Thursday

sitting in my study, at home with its splendid Eltham modernist squatness, the concatenation of rain and metal is suprisingly

Thursday

my hands smell of sardines in tomato sauce. I had them for lunch, and used a fork. still, with a mellifulous humidity that was

Thursday

Saw a man about a used car. A used car salesman. “Thirty four years I been doing this.” He really was all the clic

Thursday

well, that deadline went well. In the black and white stark certainty that words pretend, irony is perhaps difficult to distin

Thursday

Lost. Grey with a cleft peak and short, angled brim all the way round. Purchased near the Pompidou after new year’s snow

Thursday

the dictionary of obscure sorrows lolling in the sun, lounged and stretched out in abject surrender to that blue sky sunshine

Thursday

so passed the day, guilty glances to the squalor of old little jobs that hang round like the smell of dog shit on your shoe, w

Thursday

tearing ripping leaves and branches I sit wondering when the deep sharp crack of broken big timber happens there is nothing in

Thursday

spewing out words in a tumbled jumbled farrago that is somewhere between stream of consciousness and scholarly cycling in fog

Thursday

the dog mooching by my desk. Small paws and pound survivor guilt in that wan look. A soft pink line, not even severe enough to

Thursday

it might be good to understand, particularly if you are a Rapha inspired gear freak, that cycling is working class all the way