16th august - in praise of those who sooth the troubled soul . . .

for you, saint mandi of brickstone (may your holy feet only tread the carpet of inner peace for evermore)

another load of old tosh . . .

it's 10am. having risen somewhat later than is my habit after an untroubled night, performed the usual, but incomplete, morning ritual, I am, once again, sat at my throne, gathering my reminiscences of recent events and attempting to relate them in some intelligible form. incomplete, because I have left my washing gear in my rucksack which sits guiltily on the dining room table, as a reminder of the two days of brain-shite that is now in the last stages of being washed clean out by the liver of peaceful resolution. in other words, I ain't washed me shiny yellows yet and my mouth tastes like I've been dining on dried cow poo marinaded in essence of diesel exhaust.

an untroubled night because of your calming words when I needed them most. calming, not just because of the content, being that of objective common sense but also because you, yourself, seemed to be at peace with the world and this powerful sensation transmitted through the wire. I imagine stevie, dodgy and the lads contribute greatly to your condition and there is indeed a feeling of friendship and togetherness in that exclusive but welcoming club.