One misty morning in October. Thank God It’s Friday. Frankly my dear I don’t give a centime. RTYUI. Part of the charm. Why so much traffic? Firenze frenzy. Untitled document. Amazingly my diary has cleared today. It’s as if a bow wave has run through the calendar pushing all meetings aside. What shall I do? I could paint a picture. Watercolour. Watercolours. Or sort out dad’s tax. Finish my book. Not much left to read. Mourt’s Relation. V interesting. Listen to a symphony. Beethoven. One of his finest. Breakfast is something to look forward to. Must order some logs. Haircut? Avoid avoid avoid. Bury head in sand. Put on thick jumper. I’ve been in Southern California after the rain. You can see the mountains. Someone unplugged my Sonos. Heavy rain here. Lightning and thunder. The correct order. Avoid, avoid, avoid. The shallow politician. All shallows in short. Swirling words struggling with focus. Weeeth foe cus. A day of a gratuitous nature. It’s not about champagne it’s about which champagne. Look down upon the high sierra. Fighter or quitter? 😁 Switch off ears. Bruce bonus. Body pump booked. Class. I like fried bread but have no bread to fry. A fry down. No bread to fry. Fry away Trefor. Which tomato 🍅. You say tomato tomato 🍅. I say tomato tomato 🍅. Suffered a one off shock. Every other sentence. Life sentence. Significant other. The manager has been sacked. It’s a brutal business. I. Aye. Eye. Why? It’s about the party. Don’t slip on that skin. Slip me some skin. High four. Hi there, hiya. Steak for dinner. Let us break bread. I. Who did you kiss in the moonlight? Wait and see.
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I like the concept of breaking bread. Eating a meal can be done alone but breaking bread has to be some with someone else. It goes with drinking a beer or opening a nice bottle of wine.
What constitutes “a nice bottle of wine”?
No bread to break, no bread to break, no wine in the bottle, no bread to break.
Salad with a steak, salad with a steak, no wine in the bottle, no bread to break.
The youngest drinkers in town. Hannah and I were in Waitrose and repaired to the caff for a peppermint tea and a lahtay. There was a queue. They were all blokes. Old blokes.Their wives were sat holding spaces at tables. As was Han. I like going to Waitrose and occasionally frequent the caff if I’m with an offspring or pal but I never want to get into a habit of going there especially when all around are preparing for death. The slow but steady decline into a care home and oblivion. Maybe Friday morning is OAP morning. I dunno. It’s a mental thing. Preparing for death.