Love, Poetry and Revolution - Tuesday 4th July 2023

There are things afoot. If not thirty centimetres.  It's all hush-hush, secret squirrel, under the radar, between you, me and the gatepost, nod's as good as a wink, if I told you I'd have to kill you etc.

All of which means I have very little to say (here), no time to play because today is a working day and that's the way it'll stay.

On a minor note our Ring doorbell rang it's last and has shuffled off this mortal coil and gone to join the choir invisibule.  My first thought was that the transformer had given up all hope, but that appears not to be the case.  This will be fully confirmed when I replace it tomorrow, with the better version two.  Is a number two always better than a number one?

I'm cooking risotto for six tonight (people, not the hour) but before that I'm going to speak to Q.  Q and her daughter are seeing The Chicks (formerly The Dixie Chicks) Manchester tonight.

A new Ring has been delivered. One Ring to rule them all.

It's the last risotto. Which we eat (or three of us do) whilst watching the episodes of 'Black Ops' I've already seen. 

Q has been sharing photos and clips from the gig. They are having a great time and I'm having a case of gig envy. It's been a while and though the Chicks are not my bag (or should that be trunk?) I need to see live music, soon.

I shall head for bed, ungigged. 

Núria Graham / 'Yes It's Me, The Goldfish!' / 'Cyclamen'

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