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.
You take the Low Road, I’ll take the High Road, and I’ll get to Loch Munchie before thee . . .
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
Following on from last week’s post, which got tweaked not once, but twice after posting, a little something about perfection:
