Saltire and Little Baby Nothing

Listening to The Last Broadcast - Doves - Very Loudly

Weather Report - Slight drizzle - but very nearly a no-weather day.

It is nice to know that my daughter's school is keeping up the cultural education. My wife wore a T-Shirt with The Sunflowers on it for the school run yesterday. She noticed a pair of top infants children pointing at her and nudging each other. They eventually plucked up enough courage to come over to her and one of them punched the other lightly and said "See! Told you! Monet!". My wife pointed out that it was in fact Van Gogh to which the reply "oh! Right! Yeah" was received followed by a statement that he cut off his ear and shot himself in a field. Unfortunately, this high-brow stuff has to give way to more popular pastimes this evening as I am accompanying daughter to the kids' disco. Just as long as I don't have to dance; I once nearly broke a long-haired rocker's nose with my rug-cutting some years ago and have been traumatised by it. Oh all right then. I dance like an epileptic mongoose.

I am thinking of a whole day in ten seconds, from deep contrast of the neon lights against the rainy tarmac, through the evil lightening of the sky, to the gradual fade-out of everything. There is a Saltire flapping in the wind just here, a blue-and-white rag of nationalism for no apparent reason. It adds to the gentle soundtrack, the sound of rain on water or the distant homogeneous sound of a city moving. The coffee is still hot though maybe not quite like coffee should be but it works as refreshment this early. I wake up worse off than yesterday, a day older which frightens me into some thoughts that really should not have to trouble someone like me. I have heard no music this past two months save for Sunday and dancing is something I know nothing about. Nothing seems right. These are all just boys games against the sky like flower scent gone in a season. The huddle of sleep now seems so inviting. I could sleep all day, or maybe lie just this side of sleep, listening to the rain on the window not worrying about whether I should be doing anything. This may be depression but it is comfortable. Somebody somewhere is having to march across the mountains in this same rain, forced out by the senses of some extremist somewhere. Yes! I sleep the whole day, curled up like before I was born waiting for the light and hoping it will never come.