Suicide Masters no more.

Sunshine! Spurr-rring!
Past few months I've been in survival mode. The Skylark - trusty, crusty, rusty Transit has been put put out to pasture. Ice, fog, rain and darkness my grey freezing companions on the daily commute. No such thing as bad weather, jut inappropriate clothing. More so on a motorcycle...

Ah, but this morning! Warmness. And not from stopping and putting my gloves as close as I dare to the engine or accidentally leaning against the silencer in my leggings.

Smarted a little spending what I've saved on fuel recently to buy some tyres for the Enfield. Way back when I first ventured out on a motorbike, tyres were round things filled with air. One each end and made from something jurassic period black. Normally ribbed Speed Master front and zigzag Safety Mileage rear courtesy of Avon with a propensity to throw you down the road without a moment's caution. SM. Fondly dubbed Suicide Masters and always blamed without any consideration for the handling foibles of the worn out bikes they were fitted to. Never remember wearing any out, never remember buying any new either - but if they looked too perished there was always another set lurking on a scrap bike somewhere.

Big revelation! New tyres are are made of honest to goodness rubber. And grip! Even though they look the same as the Suicide Masters of (very) Olde I feel confident enough to go round corners and everything! Obviously this post is tempting fate like it's going out of fashion, but hey that's what it's there for. No matter how sad, I just wanted to share how loop-de-loop I am with my new rubber hoops...

Last Rod Run

On the first day of the last month of twenty ten, we said farewell to a friend who stopped getting older.
He finished the race that none of us want to win. Nor finish last.
Life is short. Make every beat count. Give every tear it's moment, but let each memory bring a smile.

Hair today, goon tomorrow.

Steppin' out all glow and glitter,
Curtains twitch and eyelids flicker.
Low, low buzz of tongues a-twitter,
Red hair. No knickers.

I see a story in the world, and it's friends that set it to music.

Stopped counting

The years creak by, one more missed birthday. Sister cooked us tea and made it special. I sat by the fire till midnight clicked through.

Been clearing my inbox today and found some old matter of fact messages - shopping lists, 'spag bol' for tea? And this one.

"As the bright light from the sun shone onto the patterned floor in the
sitting room, there 'dead centre' of the room appeared two nasty
looking patches. Was it a trick of the light, a shadow or something
worse? No, it was nasty smelling OIL - we may have to do something
about replacing the carpet if the marks won't come out - Robert and I
have done our best, we'll just have to wait and see.

PS could you also get some cooked ham for the kids sandwiches."

Message received, understood - and kept. Glass raised.

Wanderlust

Wanderlust. Hmmm. The lust I've always suffered.
As for wandering? Well in the words of Ted Chippington - I'm not the wanderer.
As for the king of wanderlust? Me and the long haired ginger freak went to see Gogol Bordello a few months ago.
Superb.
Formed a queue outside, picked a spot down front, and watched the world roll in to the point of heaving. Wasn't the oldest one in the room either. Excellent!

Out again last week to the talent show at my daughter's High School. No longer the stomping ground of the boy - he's moved on to pastures new but couldn't resist coming along to catch up with all his old buddies. Some of who came along on Friday to the Shed for a spot of Them Harvey Boys. For what was a rollicking good evening!

Cheers Eugene, but I'm alright lusting and wandering around my own backyard...