The robin hops outside the window.
The friendly robin hops outside the window.
The friendly robin hippety-hops outside the window as the days shorten in the shadows of the slanting sun, awakening the soul's ancient yearning for cashmere socks and a knitted hot water bottle cover. We walk down these quiet country lanes, mute disintegration surrounding us in the smell of ruined houses, nettles and damp, the abandoned illegally imported cars rusting on the bog. The yellow-lit windows are private worlds, taxed families drawn together to mutter about the banks and the public service pensions and agree that they could have managed the country better themselves for God's sake. Frightening frost covers our car window. We can't see. Sidney? Sidney? Are you there? Sidney?
The well-dressed homme sports a cable knit, the femme a camel coat. Jaded by the lettuce leaf, we move on to undepicted casseroles and warming pies. Australia stirs and bounds about, mentioning its spring tulips. We mutter enviously to ourselves and delete its blogs from our reader.
Not really, Australia.
Please don't judge me, people. This post is for Tom Stephenson, a gentleman of Bath.