Muffling Out

When looking around charity shops I always leave the jumpers till last. They're the best bit, the treat at the end. But these woolens may have to be saved for winter now. I had to buy plimsolls yesterday. It's getting too hot for laced-up converse and faux-fur topped ankle boots. The tattoo on my inner ankle is getting an airing.



The nicest thing about spring Sundays is listening to Cerys Matthews on the radio in bed as the sun shines in through the conservatory windows. And we had the first barbeque of the year today. So much meat, a couple of singed eyebrows, a whole guinea fowl and lots of bright partially charred plum tomatoes. My vegetarianism was sorely tried. But red peppers and beer are fine alternatives to blood.

My blood is fairly sluggish at the moment. I hope it returns gushing soon. Like when I used to have blood taken and the nurse would say it was slow, so I would pump my fist and out it would spurt in time to my clenching. Perhaps it is too blue at present. I need to be tickled pink. Just as Johnny Flynn sings, however twee he may be...

Tickle me pink
I'm rosy as a flushed red apple skin
Except I've never been as sweet
I've rolled around the orchard
and found myself too awkward
and tickle me green I'm too naive

Pray for the people inside your head
for they won't be there when you're dead
muffled out and pushed back down
pushed back through the leafy ground

Time is too early
my hair isn't curly
I wish I was home and tucked away
when nothing goes right
and the future's dark as night
what you need is a sunny sunny day