Mother of God

At reveille this morning I awoke with mind racing. Amongst the notions flying around my neurological corridors like leafs in a zephyr, yours truly pondered if there was an Old Zealand. Not to mention, why Poles get involved with other countries election forecasting.

I also mulled over why Isaac Newton initially identified the phenomena of gravity when an apple landed on his bonce, and not thought of it when a blackbird pooped on his head a week earlier. As singer Toyah once melodically lisped “It’s a mystery.”

Todays major news headline in the UK surrounds fallout from our top six English football clubs making a Faustian pact with a particularly avaricious devil, signing up to a European Super League with no relegation, and even less integrity.

This move by Man Utd, Liverpool, Man City, Arsenal, Chelsea and Tottenham sending shockwaves through the European game. Via a host of mediums, their actions being damned by ex-professional footballers and fans alike. The only thing surprising me about the whole distasteful episode is that people are surprised by this rapacious money grab.

I’ve just run my daughter for a job interview. A lifestyle requirement necessitated by her return back to Leeds after a year and a half residing in Kent. Her and partner Brian deciding to reside West Yorkshire in situ after concluding that the once ‘Garden of England’ had become the ‘Untended Allotment of England’……. A horticultural landscape ridden with slugs, snails and puppy dogs tails…. Or am I confusing that with a poem alleging what little boys are made of?

Incidentally, the previous sentence was tongue-in-cheek mischief. I’ve never been to Kent for many years and to be honest bear little interest in how life in the county’s avenues, alleyways and fields plays out.

Subsequently, in my ignorance, I’m gonna assume Kent still displays the 1950’s gentle utopian lifestyle displayed in the 1990’s comedy drama The Darling Buds of May. Based on the HE Bates novel of the same name, a series telling of seemingly never ending sun, food, drink and familial frolics.

Twenty feel good episodes which lightened early UK Saturday evenings between 1991-1993. This heartwarming fare imparting the value of family, knowledge you can never eat too many fry ups for breakfast, and that even if you’re a nerd you can still pull Catherine Zeta Jones.

To clarify, if you’re a native of Kent, I bear your famed chromatic horticultural landscapes no ill will at all. Just because my daughter and, many years prior to that, my brother Ian couldn’t settle in Tunbridge Wells (a jewel of your county), before returning north, doesn’t mean Pop Larkin sold them a dud.

Unable to find time to conclude this blog on Monday, I’m commencing this section of the chronicle on Tuesday morning. As I write, I’ve builders undertaking prep work for garden improvements, including the construction of patio and pergola.

Partly a consequence of my mum yelling from downstairs “Do you know it’s seven o’clock, Gary?’, I’m feeling fatigued this morning. One of the side affects of her dementia appearing to be a mistrust of my phone alarm, which was due to raise me half an hour later.

On being woken before my alarm, the first thought to cross my mind was the catchphrase of Line of Duty’s Superintendent Ted Hastings…….

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