It Is…Pt35

‘Stanley Livingstone I presume’
‘Naff off, I’m sleeping’

In the murk, a freshly painted white corner of architrave shone. Folds of ornate whipped cream traversed off the ‘V’ and rolled his way. They then faded and were gone, darkness prevailed. Soon it would be light outside, but he was asleep and he knew it, yet he recognised the looming dawn’s murmurs. A lone car purred through the village. No rush, why would there be at 05:30. On their way to work, he surmised. Clockwork. The wind blew through the chimney and a light patter of rain tapped on the road. He knew the sounds; they were his alarm precursor. Soon he’d be up and at ‘em, marshalling a regimental morning piss, a glass of water, an instant coffee, radio on, brain in gear, in that order, then he’d take the dog for a walk in the woods, the dark woods. Day musters over the lake in a matter of minutes, as if the night never existed. Long haul pilots capture dawn’s soft pastels fermenting in the shadows on a daily basis, he thought on his morning walks, but he had it there, his own wood, with Cherry, the dog. And yet this edge of morning where the witches dance, he saw that architrave shine once more, one corner, just out of reach, pointing. Ripples of ancient scrolls, possibly Greek, moulding to stone. He continued to walk the dog. He’d come back to the coving’s cream folds with their draped layers of cloth sculpted by fantasy later. In the woods he walked the dog in the fading dark, off the lead, she paused sniffing the bushes some 20ft behind. He called out and they walked on, across the giant puddle, Cherry’s paddles tip-toeing in the translucency of the wood’s stirring breath. He turned once more to capture Cherry’s inquisitiveness and there in front of him, bold as brass, curling waves of cloth began to unveil themselves in the trees. Robed figures set in creamy stoned flesh reaching to the heavens, working, harvesting. He stood, mesmerised, Cherry side glanced at the industrious hallucinations in the still morn. And there a break in the woods by the lake eased in the days awakening, hazy and unsure, and with it, the folds of stone dissipated into the sun’s ether, he walked over to Cherry where she furiously sniffed the evaporating trail…

…I’ll tell you what, cold beans aint hot, enough of that nonsense, I’ve run out of olives, call the cops…

On that calamity let’s go to World News…

Alexandre Dumas has 244 lots in the Artcurial auctions. An eight-volume epic first edition Les Trois Mousquetaires of 1844 is expected to nock for Euro 10-15,000. While the super-hot calligraphed velvet bound 1839 classic, The Alchemist, is expected to fetch 80,000 But then this 1849 edition is signed and dedicated to Russia’s Tsar Nicholas I. For something more grounded and affordable try the 1849 Napolean at E150 or a belting 9 volume Louis XIV and His Century, 1845 for a mere E180 – tell him he’s dreaming.

Germany is snuggling up to the Stan’s. The chancellor paid a visit to Kazakhstan, Krygstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan. Since Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, Germany’s exports have decreased and they’re looking for political and economic allies. Energy rich Kazakhstan seems just the Stan.

The US F-35 Lightning II Joint Strike Fighter is just the ticket but spare parts are not. They can make them, just cannot fix them. At a cost of $1.7Trn to develop the programme, it in turn costs $1.3Trn to operate and maintain, keeping a mere 55% available to fly at any one time. – Hmmm, pass an olive.

Now I had something about the 40^th anniversary of Talking Heads concert film Stop Making Sense by Jonathan Demme to rattle on about. Plus, Alan Yentob’s film docu on Bowie as he followed him across America this week back in 1973, but I haven’t got the time, nor am I a Stan, which by all accounts is the term used for an over zealous or obsessive fan with a particular celebrity.

Till next weak – spelling correct.

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Till next time f-f-f-folks… keep ‘em peeled
Pip pip, ding-dong and ticketyboo
Keep it turning, keep it wheel – keep it radioprimco

Prim

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