Saturday, July 28, 2018

this is the bunting

This is the bunting. No one cares, I know, but to me as it hangs on the partially freshly painted sheds it emits the white heat of hope.



With the arrival of the bunting, everything I had ordered has been delivered to me and I am gazing into that void of purposelessness one enters when nothing Has Been Dispatched and is On Its Way To You Right Now, Mise!




Once more, I suppose, unto the online shopping breach. Revs up Etsy, suspends critical faculties.

Blogger has such a cavernous calm nowadays. Just me and Mamie and Dwight (not your real names) kicking about amid the shards of the stained glass windows.  I could buy you a little something, perhaps bearing pictures of endangered animals. You have been so needlessly loyal, dear Mamie and Dwight.

Friday, July 27, 2018

I promised the shed some bunting once I have painted it

Now that David Davis has given way, first to Dominic Raab, and then to an executive percentage of Theresa May, Monsieur Barnier through sheer longevity is taking on the status of a Godfather. The music suggests he will be the last man standing.



The shed, being so old, is difficult to paint. You waft a brush at it and the plaster crumbles off. But only one side remains unpainted now, and of course the back, which is Disgracing Us in the Community, being visible from the Wild Atlantic Way, but pish to that.

I hope I haven't jumped the gun too much by hanging the celebratory bunting on the west elevation, the one with the broken red door. I must take a snap of the bunting. You will all be dying to see it.
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