Friday, January 23, 2004


Grey days. Damp 'n dark, in a Dylan Thomas, bible black sort of way – and wet? As wet as John Major in a power-shower …… Mid January, I bloody hate it. Where is the light? Where is the warmth? Where is the sodding Sun?

Answer? On his flippin’ holibobs, down under by the looks of it. I’ve just been watching some tennis (what a volley!) from the Australian Open in Melbourne. It’s 35 degrees in the shade for God's sake – and you could cut metal with the sharpness of the shadows. Sweaty, sticky tennis players, constantly mopping their leaking brows. You can almost smell the body odour, you can almost feel the glowing, shimmering heat… almost, but not quite.

We couldn’t get out of the house this morning. There is so much damp in the air, the front door had swollen up and jammed us in. I then tried to open the garage door and get out that way. That's when I remembered parking the car right outside the garage the night before to stop any would be burglar breaking in.

Back to the front door. It finally gave up it's resistance with the help of a few smacks with a mallet and chisel...

The garden looks like the Somme, except when it is under water, then it just looks like the Atlantic. And apparently there is a billion tonnes of snow on the way…. Time to dig out a few ‘Smiths’ albums. "Heaven knows I’m miserable nowowwwww…"

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