Wot with being educated in sarf London, one left skool not well-endowed on the grammar front. Upon realisation of how the wrong 2 can leave a whole sentence in complete error—‘knackered’ as they say where I come from—I recoiled in utmost terror.
With great Gusto, I tried to get much better. Gusto—guess what—did really great, while I just mediocre. Correct me if wrong, I’ll be glad. But a two-way street it’s apparently not, as discovered to my bad.
As purromised last week. Yet somehow still hot of the purress.
This week two f**king poems about cats; next week one poem about Two Cats F**king.
Some thoughts on that lovely stuff known as caramel:
A short story about the memories a beautiful summer can bring. Continue reading
It’s only with hindsight that I realise what a ‘playground‘ London was for me from the mid-eighties (when becoming old enough to do as I pleased) to the late nineties; when changes started running so deep they were impossible to miss and/or ignore.
I used to scroll past half-decent posts without so much as a meh. Now it’s me doing the posting, I want the world to care.
A sad, tragic, dismal culmination of events that saw defeat snatched from the jaws of victory; the gods of genius not so much unfavourable . . . more kept at bay by a needy beast desperately determined to fulfil its own agenda. Continue reading
Following on from Perfect, nobody is; all of us have something we don’t understand. But is that what’s meant when the words are said? Continue reading
To some degree everything is the result of anxiety; perfection isn’t so much sought, but fraught after:
