Thursday, December 13, 2007
Merry Christmas Everybody
A hard frost and an early start.
I'd quite forgotten how beautiful motorway sunrises can be, the romance of being faraway before breakfast, the radio for company and Stay Hot For Ages Coffee for warmth. Six lanes of traffic, some of them moving.
I played counting how many aeroplanes I could see at the same time – nine! - wondering where their occupants were off to in such a perfect sky. Their vapour trails looked like scraps of wool wiggling across the great blue yonder; glowworms; giant kisses scrawled in silver ink by a child or a drunk.
By the time I reached The Faulty Sprocket Works I was toasty enough to eat and bursting for a wee.
I had a satisfying day solutioning miscellaneous problems, all the ladies in the office thinking I was terrific – Put that mistletoe away Ms. Purchasing! I hardly know you, etc. - and was back in Preston with time to spare. I put in a full load at the Company X launderette before barbershop practice.
Neil, my former team leader, folding away a T-shirt that read “Tell your Dad to stop texting me,” explained how I need to chuff my potatoes until they're almost falling apart. I tried telling him I already do but he was having none of it. After that it was all stuffing talk. I told him I didn't, but again, little odds. The fug was steamy.
Under a twinkling corrugated iron roof, the atmosphere in the rifle range is congenial tonight - “Here we are as in old-en days, happy gold-en days of yore. Faith-ful friends who are dear to us gath-er near to us___ once more (once more)” - and I've volunteered to do a turn at next week's Christmas bash.
Merry Christmas Everybody anybody?
I'd quite forgotten how beautiful motorway sunrises can be, the romance of being faraway before breakfast, the radio for company and Stay Hot For Ages Coffee for warmth. Six lanes of traffic, some of them moving.
I played counting how many aeroplanes I could see at the same time – nine! - wondering where their occupants were off to in such a perfect sky. Their vapour trails looked like scraps of wool wiggling across the great blue yonder; glowworms; giant kisses scrawled in silver ink by a child or a drunk.
By the time I reached The Faulty Sprocket Works I was toasty enough to eat and bursting for a wee.
I had a satisfying day solutioning miscellaneous problems, all the ladies in the office thinking I was terrific – Put that mistletoe away Ms. Purchasing! I hardly know you, etc. - and was back in Preston with time to spare. I put in a full load at the Company X launderette before barbershop practice.
Neil, my former team leader, folding away a T-shirt that read “Tell your Dad to stop texting me,” explained how I need to chuff my potatoes until they're almost falling apart. I tried telling him I already do but he was having none of it. After that it was all stuffing talk. I told him I didn't, but again, little odds. The fug was steamy.
Under a twinkling corrugated iron roof, the atmosphere in the rifle range is congenial tonight - “Here we are as in old-en days, happy gold-en days of yore. Faith-ful friends who are dear to us gath-er near to us___ once more (once more)” - and I've volunteered to do a turn at next week's Christmas bash.
Merry Christmas Everybody anybody?

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