Lamentations and Bemusement.

I keep on encountering things – like songs and so on – that talk about home, and it occurred to me that I don’t know where home is. I suppose it should be in the arms of the woman who just bound up the wound after I inadvertently sliced a piece off myself with a very sharp knife and bled like a stuck pig. Only there wasn’t one, so I’m still wondering. (And not only was the treatment self-administered, the mockery was also self-inflicted, which was the only noticeable benefit.) I've never belonged to any time, place, person or organisation, so home remains an elusive concept. And my heart has a tent slung over its shoulder, just in case anybody should feel moved to quote the old adage.

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I’m a little bemused by the high incidence of visits to this blog from Russia today. It’s a bit of a coincidence since I remember also feeling bemused this afternoon at the sight of Vladimir Putin hugging Lewis Hamilton, especially since the seat of Hamilton’s pants was damp with perspiration at the time (he having just won the Russian Grand Prix, you understand.)

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Tonight I watched the final episode of the BBC drama Peaky Blinders. It’s a superior piece of work and I found it uncommonly engaging, which I why I was most put out when the final scene showed the nasty policeman from Belfast in the act of… But I won’t spoil the surprise, just in case anybody over there feels moved to take up my recommendation.