Moribund Ball of Dregs

It ain't so bad you know, lying there in the back garden during peak summer on that awkwardly unfolded chair which nearly flips you over backwards whenever you sit up in it. You can hear the snap and sizzle of Mr Ramblebottom's BBQ next door, as smoke swells and swirls over the fence and, lo! what is that? Rambles has some music playing! I never knew he had it in him the drab old square! But what is this joyful sound and sunburst? It's certainly not Pink Floyd. Why this moribund ball of dregs might be worth saving after all!

The sound of some lazy vibraphone patter mingles with the smell of burning delicious fat and you look up to an aeroplane shooting streaks of white into the cloudless blue and for that one fleshy moment you're locked inside that scratchy reggae groove, hands as light as wisps of smoke, hungry, on fire. There are wrens and magpies and alders and aspens and you are not separate. You are soil you are silicon you are stone. You are God. You are swine that's been sweating in the same t-shirt for three days. What joy! What a dreadful musky stench.

You see a wood pigeon shi . . . . AHHHHHHH! A fly! You flip over backwards from the chair and spill some lemonade up your leg and you curse and compose yourself as the fly decides to take a swim in the glass of severely lacking lemonade. What would Mr Ramblebottom think? He's scratching his bum and nodding at his beer can. I think I got way with it. Ah, bless him and his gluttony. Then the buttery fingers of the sun creep up and around your neck whilst a passing breeze caresses your cheeks and you relax and drink the lemonade anyway. Such a treacherous life dear English summer!



But instead you're in a freezing cold flat with dead spider guts on the walls listening to some mildly irritating elevator music. In Croydon.