I am laid back on the sofa near the fire listening to Pink Floyd. In my own little world. This music is so near to perfection that I want to write the equivalent of it in prose, or poetry. Words should be able to take me away in the same way that the music does. There is no reason why words alone can’t anaesthetise. Carry.
Our family tonight has become the ultimate technology victim. Anne is sat on the floor inserting leaflets into “Target” newspapers whilst watching some TV programme on the iPad and listening through earphones. We are in our own zones. There is no need to talk to each other. Each other’s presence is enough. The kids are elsewhere.
No great words from me though. Just meanderings. As the log fire dances slowly its warmth gently permeates.
Nothing that is on the TV attracts me. It strikes me that talented as some of these programme makers must be we can surely have nothing in common.