Love, Poetry and Revolution - Friday 19th May 2023

I'm not even going to say it.

I still have the cold, but I think it may be on its way out, at last.

Work, ofc.  My brain is still not quite fully operational.

The most exciting thing about today is that I have a book case on order for Sunday delivery (and assembly by me).

More unexpected washing. Nobody expects the washing inquisition.

This week's poem is by T.S. Eliot which, also unexpectedly, is becoming out of tune with the current weather, but let's keep quite about that. It's called 'Prelude 1', and it goes like this:

The winter evening settles down

With smell of steaks in passageways.

Six o’clock.

The burnt-out ends of smoky days.

And now a gusty shower wraps

The grimy scraps

Of withered leaves about your feet

And newspapers from vacant lots;

The showers beat

On broken blinds and chimney-pots,

And at the corner of the street

A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.

And then the lighting of the lamps.

Work's over and time for me to make dinner.

We watch a recent HIGNFY and then son #2 heads out for the evening. Son #1 has got my cold and so doesn't feel like going.  I suspect I may not be very popular.

Q and I have a chat and she's not feeling brilliant either, having had a headache all day that refuses to be budged by meds.  Not good. We all need sleep.

Sleaford Mods ft. Florence Shaw / 'Force 10 From Navarone' / 'UK GRIM'

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