I’m living life in the slow lane, vapid and vegetating. The less I use my body the more it feels like my head is independent and will soon float away in the wind, leaving the rest of me behind to perish, and be pecked at by birds.

Greetings, Earth.

After a long period away roaming the open autobahns of the free world and dog faces, I’ve returned several library books and processed a multitude of exotic meats. My face is wreaking an ungodly stench but my sweet peas look a treat from the bay window.  

Sometimes the son rises far too quickly in mourning the passing of time.  His jaded leaves and their timely wilting.  His heated debates and their cold logic.  His 3/4 waltz timing and its urgency of movement.  His crumbling exterior and its broken face.  His past and his present and their perfect permanence.  His future unknown and its prefect authority.

red hot apple, white hot grape, yellow hot banana.

Teddy bear with an eye hanging out by a thread.  Yeh that’s life, that’s a life right there.Bloody eye hanging out - bitta string.  That’s pretty much it.  Unstuff it, peel its face off and stick it in the washing machine, out of sight until it’s been cleaned. Dry its outer in the back room and examine its eye between your finger and thumb - “I should probably fix that bloody eye.”

Do you sense sheep?

Run Thomas! Run! For they are coming!

(pause)

The sheep are closer now

Hearing his mother cry out “the butchering could wait.”  Hearing his mother cry out, the butchering could wait. A hasty ingestion of cereal and he was away to the night but more importantly, to the rescue.  The price of meat had just gone up and my old lady had just gone down.  The goat was being fed though no score was accepted.  Yes the corruption had returned and the door was still closed despite the wild claims suggested over yesterday’s brunch.  My informer returned, released and reported upon the realms.  Light, fluffy and brown were how I’d describe the boots (python-esque) but with a soft edge, reminiscent of flowery tables and old people with the possible inclusion of doilies, cress or any nondescript source of sauce.

It was about 5 and Timothy Berners-Lee was having marital problems.  At the same time my own wife was resting by a lampost.  Whilst resting, another wife, in another country was picking up a crab on a beach.  Roger Taylor’s wife was also resting but in a different location and actually propped up against a sort of unconventional, mildly aggressive hat stand.  Not to be out done Shaun Gauter’s wife didn’t rest.  No, she infact stood, still stationary, closely watching tv at comet.

After our cross country exploits (literally) around eastern Europe our tattered suits were looking a bit worse for wear.  We popped into a delightful tailors in the upmarket part of Gali.  Whilst my inner leg was being measured, a comforting smile came across the face of Mike, something I’d become familiar with throughout our perils.  He had a warming glow about him, but as the tailor would soon find out, the great arse he had in Britain had been ruined by the excesses we had indulged in upon our escape from Czechoslavakia, most culpable the late night private truffle and cheese parties.  He had told me of his past as an underwear model and his physique was something he took great pride in, he was obviously ashamed of me being able to see him in this gnarled state. 

We joined the Georgian branch of Weightwatchers and settled down in a little suburb, trying to reap some degree of normality from the seeds of chaos we’d indirectly sewn into our lives.  Mike and I would talk about the large selection of cured meats available at competitive prices on the market and how this compared with England.  Eventually I won slimmer of the month, much the Mike’s dissatisfaction, and with it my own entry into Georgian slimming history.  This lead me to write a diet book which is where i first transcribed my “grazing diet.”  A diet consisting mostly of grass and lawn shrubbery with the occasional petal as an after dinner treat, something Mike remains incredibly sceptical towards.

Mike Spalding came into my life this week. Young man, great arse. He had a strange tan but this didn’t affect his impact on the ambiance of a room. Sure, he was flambouyant, but who could deny affection for such charming eccentricity? To set the scene we were meeting somewhere around the Czech-Austrian border after a busy business schedule in Russia, where we’d seen a man about a dog. We were in a bar with light jazz and dancing ladies, drinking whiskey with ice. The conversation had flowed well and Mike had told me about his family life, his career history and his Uncle Peter. These pleasantries out of the way the conversation moved more in the direction of freestyle lacrosse. It was at this point Mike was to reveal his true identity to me. The briefcase - a sham.  His home - a lie. His suit - poorly tailored.  He didn’t have a wife, he didn’t even have any socks. He’d scaled the dizzy heights of high society with his ladder of lies and half truths. Obviously the news shocked me, he said he’d told me too much. We made a break for Bosnia. The authorities were on our trail. We travelled through Serbia, Kosovo, Macedonia and Bulgaria before we finally arrived in Georgia. The smell of sweat and ripped formal attire was also the sweet sweet smell of freedom.