Thursday, 22 March 2012

On the small pleasures of life.

Such is the nature of false accounted ersatz hours in today’s deliberately chaotic, delirious random imagined walk, that there is little time to appreciate the simple things. The kindnesses given without pre-thought, after, sought, compliment or return. The singularly unexpected joy in the art of reception. Such an event occurred yesterday and did verily warm the cockles of my heart.

OK I know what you are thinking. You’ll be expecting some sort of reference to being in receipt of a shed load of rocket fuel from the secretive squirrel, won’t you? Well though it pains me to say so, I know that I have been negligent in my continuance of the right roister I detailed at the other shop a year ago, well we’ve swilled gallons of the finest cider, electric soup and rocket fuel in the intervening period and my thoughts on that day have developed a great deal. You must know about the geezer getting a heart transplant and acquiring new skills and tastes. There is something that the clowns educating, programming and confusing us hide that is quite simple. That which they seek to occlude.

We are sacred.

We are not animals, though the fools who would be our self appointed leaders are.

That pointed question is however a discussion being readied for the other shop.

So, no, there was not a load of 8% organic perry on the doorstep upon my return. Having said that the secretive squirrel has moved onto alcoholic ginger beer and root beer. Root beer tastes like Granny Moran’s lung tincture and embalming fluid. ARRGGHHH!!!

OK then if it wasn’t booze, I reckon you are thinking it must have been a shed load of ribs, steaks and finest Irish sausages for an upcoming Q. Well you lot know me too well, there is indeed a late winter/early spring Q pencilled in for the next weekend or so. Oh yes, clear black sky, twinkling stars, crisp night air and a couple of Qs fired up AND my new Q gloves which the secretive squirrel kindly ebayed for me when he half inched, by accident, my old Q gloves and then “lost” them. New pig skin Q gloves, poetry.

But, no, there was not a consignment of Kobe beef, quail and rabbit delivered from the two fine butchers that this part of town boasts. Both within yomping distance. One at Barnet Odeon the other at the bottom of Dollis Hill.

“OK” I know you are thinking, “if it wasn’t hooch or dead things then we know you like turnin’ and burnin’ stuff. Was it one of these? Or perhaps did one of these get craned into the back garden?”  Well yes, it would just about fit. But, no, as at the Kobe beef emporium, your correspondent can only stare in the shop window and drool, impecunity is the current state of affairs in a world neck deep in fiat cash.

Ever wondered why that should be? So much money and yet everyone is poor?

Well you are no doubt scratching your heads now. You are thinking “What else do we know he likes? It wasn’t electric soup, honey smoked hams or big boys toys. What else do we know he likes? Eureka!

Did the lads drop round?”

Well it would have made my day if the big lads had dropped round with a handful of salt, power water, sacred clay, a half ton of chanko nabe and 40 gallon drum of Kirin, but they are keeping a low profile since the ordure hit the fan and I don’t see them getting back to the Smoke for a long, long time. So; no.

What was it then?

Did you scrape together enough cash to get an oz of silver delivered? Notice that that heap of retarded crap, Broon, made sure that silver is taxed and gold is not. Did you notice that, the PhecalPhukk D’Witzzz? Well no; no semiprecious industrial metals were delivered to this here post code.

So what was it then?

My daughter bought me a book mark.

Now you are no doubt wondering why a simple book mark could possibly weigh more on the scales of my heart than all the cider in Somerset and all the TexMex in, well, TexMex. What could a page marker do for me that a fast jet or big geezers in tartan mawashi could not?

Eager for the heavy lifting?