spring bore

Cameron's chair is still warm from Gordon's arse and already the old Tories are acting as Lords of misrule. Today in WHSmiths I was blatantly queue jumped by two Express reading pensioners who then barged past me...I threw my Beano down in disgust and walked out.
Is this a measure of our brave new world to come? Lib Dems, for shame.
That dark political cloud has hung over me (and most of my colleagues) all day. In the van this morning there was a (much more than usual) defeated air...like a scene from the Fugitive. Then I saw the muddy banks of the Lune being washed over by an incoming wave, the Lune Bore (fuck you Severn).

badgering blues

My ice cold heart has been warmed these past weeks by the very funny amendments made to local Tory billboards. As my mobile still has a dial and a bell I wasn't able to capture these digimally. Only this morning I chuckled out loud in the communal van as we drove past the latest Tory poster/victim...'let's cut benefits for those who refuse war' it states, and sausage face Cam is wielding a huge machine gun.

What's on? Mt Belly that's what.

now fuck off back to your scrat hole and lock the fucking door.
Love Lancaster City Council.

heavy sky

As if the grey cold rain isn't enough: the constant nagging drag of a hefty bag on my right shoulder; sharp twinges shooting through my shoulder blades; the soul sapping monotony of the featureless streets populated by trolley trundling, shuffling old carcasses; the joyless meaningless contents of said bag: thick wodges of slippery Home Shopping catalogues, Readers Disgust (join a fucking library, read a real book!)..

the paper cycle

A recent episode of Wallander (the BBC remake featuring a constantly blubbing star and several dopey sidekicks with frizzy perms, not the excellently dour Swedish version) featured a postman as the murderer..it was signposted early on in the episode by plonking a red post van conspicuously in a scene for Branagh to almost fall over. It's a nice thought, murder. GK Chesterton got there first with his murdering postie carrying his corpse in a mail sack unnoticed: 'the invisible man'. I understand the urge to throttle people.

the aged saga

News reaches us of a postie being hospitalised by a cat. I know this cat, I'm sure of it. The postie in question was so startled by the cat in the letterbox that he stumbled backwards, breaking his back, or something. When I first discovered this feline menace I didn't realise it was a cat at first, my first thought on feeling the intense pain in my fingertips was 'dog'. The wounds were pinprick small (but exceedingly bloody) so I assumed 'small scratty dog', or malicious pins in the letterbox. The next day I investigate.

the splurge of spring

there's no time anymore. Christmas madness has seamlessly morphed into snow and ice sheer fucking terror. I fell at Christmas, not in snow or particularly thick ice, just a thin layer of frost on a smooth stone slab. But boy did I fall, a classic legs in the air whoops a daisy. One minute there, the next 'whoosh!', lying on the gutter under a scattering of mail...flushed and shaken. Buster Keaton would be proud.

animals

"can you close the gate, I have an animal you know!" No fucking kidding you old sack, I've seen your wife. I think this whilst other words tumble past my lips. Stuck in suburbia with retired, boring, bored, gate loving twats. I explain to the gentleman that I left it as I found it but he goes on: "but gates are made to be closed aren't they?" Yes, repeatedly on your skull.

tear stained letters

It's a time of contrast. Compare and contrast. I'm being bounced around these weeks, used and dumped according to who's sick/been sick/hungover. For a few frantic days I'm delivering half of a walk for a postie who's recovering from a (2nd) stroke ('you don't get a third!' states my mum chillingly)