[Draft in progress toward sense]
[Day 2, Euch]
Reader, I appreciate, and am fully aware of my recent absence from this stool, here at Department For All Rigorous Enquiry Online, Inc. I am truly sorry.
Real life events
, how they overwhelmed, and certainly I enjoyed an exciting and intensely athletic Olympic games. But fear I cannot talk to you, at all, [gentlemen] about these successes during women’s coxless fours event over in Rio, or even my world record high jump for our GB. Only to say by way of oblique reference, I remain here, am typing still – from attic overlooking a school. Sea water splashes, lashes a mile away, out of ear shot or range, past pier and [the] people.
‘At least,’ I said to my wife upon my return, ‘I have these here, darling. Look, see the bronze,
the gold medals swing upon my bronze belly…ooh, they tickle.’ I laughed, played the national anthem for the thirtieth time that morning on my kazoo. An original recording version, how I love all royal teeth.
‘But where have you really been, and really?’ said my wife.
‘It is the car darling, knackered car. I had to catch the train.’ [I said]
You see, Thursday it was, when our car died. As the mechanic explained:
‘Coil, this mate, see this,’ he said, ‘combines vital coke, limestone, slag underneath your bonnet,’ he said, ‘choke on embers, ‘ he said.
‘Poor child,’ I replied, ‘chap, take your £500, fix the bitch quickly. I’ll see you guys tomorrow mummy, I mean mate, I mean I am going.’
So this was Me – embarkation upon the first of several, many long arduous journeys by solo train toward the workplace and back again to our castle [or viz/verz]. Meanwhile understand, and I digress, how I possess – shoes. Five pairs of Wellington boots – are lined up at work, and some rigger boots also, and three pairs of my own [stylish brogue] shoes live in the back seat of my car for when I wear them, aside two flip flops…remember:
Sequentially the truth…it is detailed precisely [please see below] –
Having returned from the car workshop, Sussex Auto-Mechanics, I was late home
remember, and she definitely wore suspicion in those eyes. At this stage, recall, I was shod in pre-said flip-flops. Refreshing. But then, back at that home, after a night of vivid dreams with butter, and by early morning, flip-flops had disappeared completely from my house, indeed bedside carpet was bare of all shoes [except for yesterday’s pants].
‘Your shoes are in your car,’ she said [groggily].
My alarm told me I had to go – to work. I am/and and was too important for the operation of switches to be delegated to mere management. I must go, be went, or gone, or face complete unemploymentude, emasculation of the jobless despair. I turned manfully away from bedside lamps, me, and strolled barefoot toward a train station, made a rapid stroll or a hop-skip, my jaw set firm in defiance of you, your convention, your worm rules.
I wore shorts, of course – part of the summertime disguise, though something told me it was September the 1st at 5.45am. The thought of new Autumn laws looped in my ears,
it was a sartorial fear. Also, I kept a pair of socks stuffed inside my waistcoat pocket in case – I was accosted by an inspector, knowing full well I had to show him something. I knew also salvation, my colleague Brutus would scoop me at the other end of the journey, transport us toward rigger boots awaiting at headquarters – and many buttons to press.
Am I making myself clear?
Brutus never arrived in his white utility vehicle. I walked shoeless across the motorway toward the factory, only a shopping bag in my hand to demonstrate – authorities, I am not your crazed bomber. Luckily I got to work eventually, [and] washed my toes.
Refreshing [again] though, to actually walk through a town, along a highway, watch people at low speed. With older chaps I tried a ‘How do you do,’ or a ‘good day, sir.’ Same rules as applied in the car with a wave, the thumbs up for white van companions. Formula, when successful, brings great joy to my heart, although on this occasion I failed to connect with anybody. Even at Lewes interchange The Polish guard was not a player for me, sneered at my asymmetric feet. He pointed only with his accent towards the appropriate platform. Memory brings a chill to my spine egc 😉 xx