They said up the working man and I took it like a working man, a working Englishman, with my hands firmly in my pockets.
I start a new job on Monday 13th June and have stolen the opportunity for a non-earnt break. Flew by propellor plane to Guernsey to visit Paddy for a few days. Wonderful scenery, cliffside walks, swimming in the big blue, eating fresh wild barbecued sea bass, dancing at night on the beach beneath a blanket of stars. We very nearly got to Sark but the boat was full so we ended up on Herm island instead which was quite stunning nonetheless or maybe sometheless, even just a littlebitttheless. It struck me as being like the Maldives in the colour of the sea and the range of flora and fauna had me falling all over, fawning and fanning the flies from my face. Phew. Pretty dangerous thing to do on a cliff top. Or a cloff tip for that matter. What’s the matter? Well, now, that’s another matter altogether. Altogether: “that’s another matter.” Class dismissed. Dismissed is getting in me eyes I can’t see a thing. I picked a large handful of small shells which is better than a small handful of large shells because that would be trite and piffling who could be a small firm of solicitors for all I know. They were wee and pretty in that order with a whole range of colours and textures (the shells you donkey not the solicitors – keep up), of course because as we all know shells is shells is shells and they are not all the same but they are, if you follow. Not follow the shells, follow the logic though really you could follow the shells as they were all in a line on top of the sand which was soft and bright and dark yellow and made of millions of tiny fragments of other shells I suppose or rocks or a mixture of the two more likely, all smashed to bits by the hurly crashing lapping mistress. The furiously feisty raging sea would rear up and fall at its edges on the poor little rocks and shells, sending them skeetering all over the shop though no, of course not the shop but the shore would be more accurate. Ah, the soft sandy shore how she sings. The craggy headlands up and down the coast. Up and down? How are they up and down? It depends entirely on your perspective. The tiny hundreds of flowers flitting in the wind, delicately bowing in the breeze. Bird’s shrill cries whipped and whirled though the salty air. From the aeroplane with the big propellers I looked down on the islands in their cluster, sliding golden edges swallowed by the turquoise shallow waters which were peppered with dark swaying spots of seaweed and crags of rock, jagged and deep brown and strewn with oh God I can hardly bear it more greenery and guano. The blazing sun firing off the glowing metal trim on the white aeroplane with its great black propellers cutting the air to bits or just passing through if that’s what you prefer. To me it makes no difference. I bad or bade the islands farewell or fair well through a haze of heat and it was hard to hear through the rage of the machine but I think I heard them say come back some day. You left a shred of your soul on the rocks.
Just thought you might like to know.