I am writing this sitting in the remains of a bed picnic. Rather nice, actually, and no, not a bed anatomised and consumed under the English shade of apple trees. Rather, the picnic from the train to London transposed to this stationery location and consumed.
Mind running rampant, sleep closing in sharpish.
Or rather, purportedly. Not to me, at least. What, you think I’d be writing a blog entry if I had come back from the actual dead? Mate, I’d be letting my doubting friends touch my wounds instead.
My easter looked a little more like this:
I shit you not. The largest dog in the entire world descended into my paschal weekend and disrupted it with his head like a barrel. I object to many, many things, but think particularly that a dog who is taller and heavier than me is some sort of abomination.
It feels rather Medieval, man the literal measure of all things, and at under 5 foot, that is not a great measure. But seriously. I could have put my head in his mouth whole.
In other news, I have been shy here. Shy everywhere, been stuck inside like a bulb.
Will attempt a more sunflowery constitution and poke my head out to greet you all more. Trust me, I miss you, Im probably only at home thinking of awful floral metaphors.