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Sunday, 3 July 2011

Lightning strike

People pasting each other in the supermarkets, crashing at the traffic lights, yelling out of car windows, the heat is getting to the tourists. The locals are genuinely shocked, especially the cashiers. I remain in my ivory tower oblivious to the outside world. A bit unhealthy I suspect, but vital when it feels like 40 degrees outside. A new set of screamers out back, yesterday being change- over day in holidayville.
Thunder and lightning all night, and me dreaming of walking through Culross, barefoot in the snow, in the middle of the night looking for my house. I have read that houses symbolise the state of one's mind. I dream about houses a lot. They are always  1). Without a roof. 2). Are empty 3). I can't find one. Oh dear...


  1. Oh ha, ha. I've certainly dreamed of trains, not missing them, but ones that don't go anywhere.

  2. Sorry - haven't been about much recently, recovering in a darkened room from an overdue overdose of femme fatale Maureen who makes hungry where most she satisfies.

    Flying. Dreams, that is. Or climbing somewhere vertiginous where falling is the only option.

    Holidaymakers can often be discouraged by throwing a bucket of water over them.

  3. Christopher: I'm awfully sorry but once again I have to say Maureen doesn't actually exist. I have taken note on the tourist advice. I am tempted. They are still screaming.


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