wytchcroft

Time, one is wont to note, flies when you’re having fun. Is it nearly a year since last Xmas already? The answer of course is “yes!” Well didn’t that just fly by? The answer of course is “dear God no.”

Actually, the movement of time is a strange thing, time is a vari-speed creature; it seems to crawl with painful slowness through the days and weeks and months but a whole year can evaporate in a flash. Last Xmas does feel like only yesterday, even if April or July or even October appear, in comparison, to be many more light years distant.

All of which is by way of ruminative introduction to this annual round-up and review of the year and its loose ends. At least those that concern me and my small coterie - I say small, but in this weather my coterie is actually quite large and fleece lined and I am very grateful for it!

Of course winter with its short days and long nights encourages melancholy - and the earlier months which one may have greeted with enthusiasm naturally fade into the distance. The road from there to here (or I should say ‘now’) may have been Long and Winding (as the song says) but it has also been bastard bumpy and it is with mixed feelings that one scans back along the highway of life and notes the achievement of making it thus far across such difficult terrain.

In doing so, I must (albeit without enthusiasm) turn to that subject currently gripping the country like a hard frost. I refer of course to the controversy surrounding my very good friend and loyal companion, colleague, entrepreneur, adventurer and all round hamster, St-John. The time has come for me to put down the simple facts of the case but more than that to admit my own responsibility in this embarrassing affair. An affair that has, in my opinion, been given far more coverage than necessary in order to distract the public from other revelatory events of real concern - such as the shocking arrest in the Houses of Parliament of a woman discovered to be spying for FIFA.

this was compiled for a friend's blog - but (typical me) didn't fit the brief. So.... here it is instead (and covering some familiar ground i'm afraid) seven days in the week of wytch.

Seven:  

Stop Dave stop…

Windows…

My mind is going – stop Dave…

Windows…

Bloody windows.

Quite when I became one of those absentminded harassed looking types who have to lock, re-open, relock, re-open and check and counter check the situation of doors, possessions, windows, I don’t rightly know (your honour).

It seems to be a work thing. I swear I’m never that befuddled at home… maybe I have responsibility issues. Damn, I was hoping the power (over the building at least) would go to my head (see below). But no, I am obviously a child. (wails).

Hey ho, I’m sure my darting lurching scarecrow of a figure will be amusing some random observers anyway – and I like to spread a little happiness, a little mirth.

Bumped into John. He’s a sharp dressed man for sure. Reminded me about the diary/blog. Gulp!!!( Read more... )

“The problem with autobiography is it sounds like having a wank.”

My friend squinted at me across the café table, his fingers slipping a little on its sheeny plastic surface as he pushed himself back away slightly. “This isn’t an interview you know” he said, “I’m not here for the pleasure of your sound bites.”
( Read more... )

Two re-worked folk songs on a theme:

The Handsome Kitchen Boy:

It's of a married Lady as you must understand
She slipped from court to follow
Her true love through the land

She dressed herself in peasant rags
Or so it does appear
To work as a squire and kitchen boy
And serve well for a year

With fingers pale and delicate
And hair all in a curl
The others often smiled and said
"He looks just like a girl!"

( Read more... )