On commencement of this literary offering, sun beams onto GJ Strachan’s (GJS) ever thinning crown via the glass roofed mezzanine at the White Rose Shopping Centre (WRSC) in Leeds.
Slurping cacophonously on a Costa Coffee iced latte, humidity levels generated through the transparent dome make a convincing attempt to fool the northern Englishman he’s greenhouse in situ.
Through heat induced hallucinations, a guy on an adjacent table appears as a maturing tomato plant to the hapless Leeds lad. With forlorn demeanour, the vines fruit begs the for rehydration in the shape of a bottle of Pembrokeshire still water.
Bearing in mind its dehydrated state, this illusionary plant’s specificity about the source location of the H2O baffles GJS. After all, as the adage says ‘Beggars can’t be choosers!’, or in this case ‘Severely arid tomato plants can’t be insistent about the geographical origins of its rehydration redeemer!’.
After re-reading the second and third paragraph of this essay, I’m beginning to concur with the observation my sister Helen never tires relaying of “I’ve no idea how your mind works, Gary!”
It has to be said, the three hours I spent gardening prior to my fifteen minute sojourn to the WRSC hasn’t helped maintain a comfortable body heat. This despite, on completion of my horticultural maintenance work, me showering in tepid aqua, consumed a couple of pints of tap water*** and driving here with my car’s air-conditioning on full blast.
*** – The tap water sourced from a West Yorkshire reservoir, most probably accumulating within a Pennine Hill tarn…… I’m resolved that there’ll be none of this consuming this South Wales aqua for GJS. Although, to be honest you ordinarily don’t get a choice of your tap water’s origins. Insistence on Pembrokeshire still water through home plumbing systems would necessitate relocating to Cymru. A somewhat extreme measure to undertake while attempting to satisfy the need for a specific geographical water source.
As a consequence of running out of laptop charge, with no means of recharge, I’m penned this part of the narrative after an enforced hiatus from fulfilling my creative want. With candour, the break has resulted in me losing my thread where I was originally venturing on this literary journey….. Although, to be honest, that probably happened around midway through paragraph one above.
Leaving the WRSC greenhouse around three hours ago, I cooled down a while back. No longer am I preoccupied by excessive perspiration and hallucinations of conversing with a parched vine tomato plant. Instead I’m chilling in the ambience of my mater’s abode, a recently arrived breeze through the French doors making temperatures significantly more bearable.
During this evening, such has been my procrastination and multiple (welcome) interruptions its now almost dusk outside as I draw towards this narrative’s dusk. A beautiful cooling breeze, amalgamated with July warmth, bequeathing an ‘as good as it gets’ 10pm summer temperature.
My ten hours of unforgiving garden maintenance now bestowing cathartic views of horticultural grooming of such aesthetically pleasing views it’d probably lead to shrub ninja Alan Titchmarsh positing “Have you got alkaline or acidic soil, Gaz?” and “Have you any idea what time the Skyliner chippy shuts?”
2 kids who've flown the nest, 1 wife whose flown with Jet2. Born at a young age in 1960's Leeds, the author became interested in the literary life when his wife bought him a dog. Having an allergy to dogs, he swapped it for a typewriter. Being unable to train the typewriter to retrieve tennis balls, he reluctantly turned to writing...... Website - www.writesaidfred.org