I’m alfresco as I ascribe my prose this sunny Monday morn. Amongst the immediate landscape nemesia, marigolds, a patio rose, begonias and forget me nots bequeathing yours truly chromatic views. Aesthetics which calm the soul and augment my already burgeoning amour for Mother Nature.

With the clan home, bought by my parents in 1989, changing ownership in the coming weeks I’m making the most of time left at this domain. Chambers and gardens where family and friends created a plethora of happy memories in the company of our now late familial patriarch and matriarch.

I’m unsure whether ascribing in this environment whets my creative juices more than normal. It does, though, afford improved aesthetic levels in comparison to my usual lounge armchair or dining table seat penning pews.

To avoid laptop screen glare, and more importantly burning my thinning haired bonce, I’ve selected to scribble these locutions perched upon a rattan chair in the back garden shade cast by the patio pergola.

It’s only just gone 10am as I commence this paragraph, yet it’s as warm as a Saharan camel’s backside….. Mercifully, though, it doesn’t smell anywhere near as bad as an even-toed ungulate’s posterior…. Incidentally, that’s not an observation made from experience; more an educated guess.

I’m quite dehydrated as I commence this monologue section; meaning I’m gonna break shortly to quench a raging dry mouth consequential of this overpowering heat.

Sadly, though, the only chilled drinks in the fridge are beer or wine. Beverages with whom I ordinarily hold a special affinity; but only after the sun is over the yardarm. It’s gotta be said, if GJ Strachan started imbibing prior to midday (as it is as I write) it’d raise concerns he was on the rocky road to ruin.

Consequently, as it’s still well before an acceptable alcohol intake hour, I’d love a soda drink; summat like a chilled Sprite to negate the aridity of my parched throat. However, frustratingly I’m bereft of such thirst quenching refreshments.

This outcome a self-inflicted situation caused by me drinking three cans of Sprite last Thursday afternoon. Not, in candour, through any raging thirst on my part. No, the uncouth acts were undertaken to cause an eleven month old child to laugh hysterically at my loud belches which emanated after each swig from the can.

Not only were my actions a disgusting thing to teach child, but this immature piggery now means I’ve no chilled drinks to overcome the aridity of my palate. Parchment which’s started leading to mirage manifestations among the garden views.

As I’m actually looking at a dog’s water bowl, with it being full to the brim with H2O (or council pop as my buddy Sarah calls it), I suppose technically it could be classed as an oasis. Not, that I’m gonna rehydrate from the canines dish I hasten to add. I may like belching exaggeratedly, but I do have some boundaries with what is and isn’t disgusting!

Like the dogs, it appears I’ll be following council pop rehydration steps until I get to the shop later. My sips, though, taken from a very different chalice to the backwash filled doggy dish.

“What’s the moral of today’s story, Gary?” I hear you cry…… Oh, you didn’t!….. It must’ve been my stomach rumbling!

Anyhow, the harsh lesson I’ve taken from this morning’s pop paucity episode is don’t adopt the technique of entertaining children by belching soda fuelled gas….. In summer, especially, save the soda for thirst quenching; keep the kids occupied instead by letting them sup from the dog bowl.

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