Post-Midnight Notes.

Just in case anybody is desperate to know where the poem came from in the last post, it’s Adlestrop by some English bloke whose name I don’t remember. It’s quite famous. Adlestrop is a small village in Gloucestershire which used to have a railway station, but now has only a bus shelter. They kept the station sign, though, and guess where they put it. In the bus shelter. If I had a slide scanner I could show you a picture of me standing next to it, but I don’t. Pity; it’s my one and only connection to literary greatness.

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I must start going to bed earlier now that the year is advancing. When I turned the light off at 3.35 last night (this morning,) the sky was getting light. I hate that. It makes me feel like I’ve been cheated out of a night.

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I made some coleslaw today and I can’t stop eating the stuff. I had coleslaw with lunch, coleslaw with dinner, and I just had a coleslaw sandwich.

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To accompany the coleslaw sandwich, I watched an old Laurel & Hardy short called Hog Wild. Mr Hardy and his wife reminded me of my great grandparents, the male half of which fled to America. If you have nineteen minutes to spare and don’t mind admitting to a taste in humour that is both conventional and archaic, it’s here:

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I’ve developed the habit of writing late night blog posts, and then deleting them unpublished. That’s because I’ve also developed the paranoid notion that they will compromise my privacy and/or my reputation as a sane, sober and rational being. This one is boring, so it can go up on the board.