I went for a slow stroll along the beach today. Murray the weatherman had told me to expect warm coastal winds from the south and he wasn’t wrong. There was a spring in my step and a levity to my thoughts. I was jealous of those fellow walkers who had the company of fine dogs and so someone to throw balls or stones for. One long haired setter rushed up to me with expectant eyes as if I was about to pull a slab of steak from my pocket and when I didn’t he barked over his shoulder to his owner and shook himself dry before bounding off after some other intrigue. There was flying spittle and salt water all over my Ralph Lauren T-shirt. I was not bitter at all.
The passage of each day is bringing me closer to forming a terrorist group of my own.
When I was but a wee young stripling of a lad I remember continually arguing with my parents after one occasion when I made the fatal mistake of being honest with them. I had just smoked my first few spliffs down the bottom of the garden and foolishly, and perhaps because I was freshly stoned, I presumed that Mum and Dad would understand my curiosity and would leave me to it. I mean, the authors I was so enamoured with at that time were all prescribing healthy doses of all sorts of pharmaceuticals; Huxley liked his mescaline, Kesey his LSD-25 and Burroughs his smack, to name but a few; and I thought that the rents would take my mild investigations into these matters with a nurturing pat on the back. This was not the case.
Hence followed two years of them shouting at me that I needed counselling and me replying in shrieks that it was them who needed help to deal with the reality that,"everyb...
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