It’s Time… Pt35

Written by Prim on 16/12/2022

But it’s Gonna be… Long

‘… It’s been a long, a long time coming
But I know a change gon’ come, oh yes it will
‘Sam the Cook with an e’

Postie Prim and his Black & White dog bit: Go Long

I swear, with all this walking I’m getting shorter. Worn down like a train-spotter’s pencil they be.

Lager lager lager Shouting Mega mega white thing.

Amidst the long and short of it in a round-about kind of way, it being the singular subjective pronoun of them, it’s good to change, albeit that change, any change if orbited the sun enough times, is usually a revert to where it once was given the circles in life whereby returning back to point ‘a’ – what… what, what, what… Shouting lager lager lager

Albeit, a fine word. I use it a fair chunk, an author friend of mine had never heard or used it before, he is Australian, I’m not sure if that’s relevant… damn, fire’s gone out again.

Snow. It came. Snow. Wow, what a wondrous thing. Cascading frozen powder flakes of the planet’s dandruff suspended in limbo. Drifting on gravity. Just hanging around. Waiting to fall. Flurry, no hurry, down they eventually make their way. Laying their chilled souls, turning the world white. The joy, the excitement, the temperature. It’s early morn, I have work. I stand beside myself in a dramatic pose and declare to the world, I shall wear longs! Void of thought, spurred by speed and rallied by instinct, I immediately don a pair of longs. I haven’t worn longs since 2002, the mega mega white thing has grappled my still slightly pissy eyed Saturday morning instinct and demanded longs. The sensation is… exotic.

We (me Cherry and Led Zeppelin’s lot who came from the land of the ice and snow) marched through Saturday morning’s unease with a slip in our step and a crunch under de- waterproof flip-flopped foot. By the third street I was boiling. Longs, how tropical. Snow’s warmer than I remember. I skied in California in shorts or did I dream it? The mood amongst all fellow men is buoyant. People in the pub talk. He’s wearing longs. Parliament talks. Not about my longs, it’s just a French derivative to talk – parle… pah!

Day 3 and the snow turns to ice. Slippery, short steps slip, slide up a steep drive, slide back down, backwards, clutching air. Manage to pull on a branch, slide back down and find a footing. Ice ridges formed from foot prints and pram wheels, broken ankle country, slip slide again, slap a gammy gout ridden foot down to stop keeling over and awaken the beast, yeowser, the pain, immediately slam the left toe into a hidden step and break that big gout ridden toe, crikey, gout-alive in both feet, explosives, images of torn nails, mangles pulp of flesh and bone, swollen purple beets, smashed bloody ankles, a war zone in boot, sorry, flip-flop, blown to bits, it’s so painful, so much more painful in the snow, the cold, those poor buggers in World War I me thinks, getting bayoneted in the winter, cold steal, it’s so cold, it’s so painful. So much more pleasant to be bayonetted in the sun. I should know. Steady myself. Back on the skid walk, houses are moving further apart as you have to tread the long route, where ice has waned, Argh, black ice, bastard. Old people laugh from their windows. Bastards. Some folk insist on having letter boxes at the bottom of their door, bastards, double bastards on a cold windy day when you’ve just got your thermals tucked in for the umpteenth time, crouch once more to invite the icy breeze attack of the crack. Argh. Deliver a book at No.47, probably Durban’s Bread. Arrrggghh, the ear wire from the phone has got tangled up in the bag strap again, the sound from the phone has gone off, have to undo the jacket to release wires, bloody wires. Pull bag’s shoulder strap overhead, dislodge hat and glasses and get glove caught, slip, slam the beast, throb, yelp, fall over, end in a heap, right ankle at right angle, knee shattered on ice, grin keeping hold of sanity. Get up and move on. An old lady at No.7 asks not to walk on snowed garden but down the icy steps when going to No.5. Cherry gets her note pad out, (No.7, tick). We confirm give her a Thai wai and move on. I’ve just about ran out time writing this… Nice lady in No.19 is sat in her living room playing the piano. Soothed. Retire with cold hands eating a cold sandwich on a cold park bench. The early arvo sun fat, round and low. Back on the short step slip for last round. Snow, it’s amazing. I love it. Cherry does too.

flurry
pub garden after england game

Meantime in other news boffs have made the sun. Well, as darn near to replicating it. A nuclear reaction of two entwined light atoms gifting the equivalent energy the sun uses. That’s free energy folks. Beware dodgy bloke down pub selling false sun.

Somewhere a fine dusting of black and white snow settle on dislodged house number 7 half buried in the snow.

Right, that’s it, no edit, no time – boom, in your room