Monthly Archives: July 2012

Sand

When there’s a divider
as big as the sea.
When I can’t be there
please believe me,
that I’ll be right with you
holding your hand,
like the time we walked barefoot
our toes deep in the sand.

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The sad call of the ice cream man

The other night as I sat in the living room with the window open to let through a breeze that never came, a sad sound drifted between the curtains. At first I thought the ice cream man, delivering frozen treats after hours was perhaps trying his best to limit the familiar tones of which ice cream vans in England are synonymous.

But then the next day he was back, and this time a lot earlier…

Ice cream man
In your ice cream van
With your music so
slow

A music box
on its last few turns
To let the people
Know

Each note a tear
The pain I hear
As you try to crack a
Smile

The rain to blame
No sales again
The cash flow turned to
Ice

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Sports Day for grown ups

The games that can’t be named (or Sports Day for grown ups) is almost here. Olympic lanes are now open on some of the stretches of roads in and around London and rush hour traffic gets just that little bit more irritating.

Sports day comes with much fanfare and a lot of pomp and ceremony (and we do love a bit of pomp and ceremony). Excitement for millions, but equally there are plenty of people that forecast much doom and gloom ahead. Is it good for the country? What will happen to the infrastructure once the 18 days of sport are over? What effects will this have on the Eastenders schedule?

Me, I’m not too fussed either way. Athletics (running) doesn’t exactly set my world on fire, but the fascination with the torch relay does have me intrigued. I don’t know why, but I always had it in my head that this ceremonious trek was a predetermined route direct from Greece to the chosen location. In my head it was like that scene in Forrest Gump, where he “just kept runnin'”.

But it’s not like that, is it.

What it seems to be, in true Engl… sorry, British fashion, is a chance for celebs to go on a bit of a paparazzi jog around town centres and cities followed by a cavalcade of well wishers and flag wavers. The torch, for several parts of the journey has even been stowed away in a van or at best, hidden under a brolly.

The route (at first glance at least) looks like it’s been designed by some of this countries¬†greatest town planners. You know the sort of people. The ones that put speed bumps just where you don’t want them, and design one way systems that would make Ikea scratch it’s collective head.

A quick stroll along the pit straight at Brands Hatch, a go on the London Eye and it even popped on the tube. The torch doesn’t represent the Olympic Gods, it represents the common garden tourist, but you know what… that’s ok. It all feels very British. I’m fully expecting to see the torch sitting on a park bench having just stepped off a London bus, sipping a cup of tea with a bag of royal postcards by it’s side and pigeons at it’s feet…

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I’m batman

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In preparation for Dark Knight Rises I’m watching a few animated adventures and found myself doodling in the Paper app. This was the scratchy ramblings of my doodle finger.

I’m batman.
No, I’m batman.

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Too tired

I’d write a post about being tired.
But I’m too tired.

I’d maybe moan and whinge a bit.
But I’m too tired.

I’d tell you about the boy that doesn’t sleep.
Who shouts and calls and turns up the heat,
in a house that’s already starting to creak
under the stress of getting little to no sleep.

But I’m too tired.

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