3 November 2012 - Dear Dairy # 3
By Parson Thru
To the sound of pouring rain.
Please, Lord, don't make me have to write another awful poem about rain.
Try to remember what I was dreaming, but all I can summon is a headache. The ringing in my ears reminds me of the workshops of my youth. The massed voices of steel being bored, milled and turned in ear-splitting harmony. I can smell the hot cutting oil. Rocol? It's drowning out the rain a little, anyway.
It's N's birthday weekend. Nobody has ever made such a fuss of me and made my birthdays such a celebration as she does. All I ask is that this fucking miserable, depressing rain will stop so we can do something nice on hers. Is it just the South-West or is the whole miserable country like this now. One of my favourite words is 'arid'. What the fuck am I doing in a place like this?
l have another cold. Punishment for running. Punishment for living somewhere cold and wet, where no one even notices the absence of sky and Sun anymore. The weather has increased in intensity and noise. I've offended it. Go fuck!
It's my granddaughter's birthday the day after N's. History has repeated itself since her last one. Blank human beings must be the nearest thing to angels. By the time they are mature enough to escape the home they are born into they are fully kitted out for life. As fucked up as everyone else.
But, hey! The day has started. N is awake. Time to hit the birthday trail and push off that dirty old duvet of doom. It may be pissing down outside but inside the sun has just come out.
Oh dear. She has a dodgy belly.