Marmite

Last week, I was up and down to London more times than a pogo-stick warrior on a sugar high. I went from a debate about should we abolish our monarchy (‘Mexit’), to whether we should back or bin net zero (‘Nexit’), and a reassessment of all things Brexit (‘Brexit’) almost ten years after the Glorious Revolution ... I mean 'Referendum'. (Or do I?) The following highlights aren’t what I’d anticipated I’d blog about. Just goes to show that a week of politics makes strange unintended consequences (I cannot so much mix as mash my clichés).

“There'll always be an England While there's a country lane Wherever there's a cottage small Beside a field of grain”.

Barnsley. The final frontier. To boldly go where no man or woman has gone before and remained sober. I’ve been four times in the past seven weeks. Don’t judge me. I’ve rented a storage unit to store some stuff – cripes this is riveting – in a tatty warehouse on a tatty trading estate in a tatty part of town. It’s convenient and functional, so job done. Several times a day I’ve driven to the warehouse in my Honda Jazz – the little car that thinks it’s a large Tardis – unloaded the boot and trollied several packed boxes up the ramp, down the corridor and into the unit. Repeat X3 until car is empty. One day was different. When I opened the door to collect the trolley, I could hear the most beautiful organ music. Evocative. Soaring. Not a church organ but an Art Deco theatre organ. I could tell it was ‘live’ and not a recording by the timbre oozing through the buildings’ pores and massaging its sinews. Dad would have loved it. I welled up. Pulling myself together, I finished stacking the b...

I have a million and one things to do today so this blog is just a collection of short takes: no research, no ‘clever’ logic, probably more typos than usual. It’s my disparate thoughts on the Coronation of KC3.