I’m beginning to lose the plot. Not only is it National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and National Author’s day, but also it is the National-blog-everyday-for-a-month Fest (NaBloPoMo!). What I did not know until I went to ASDA was that it is also National Sausage Week here in the UK. Now come on guys, you’ve got to admit that all that literary stuff fades into the background compared to the English Sausage. I’m gonna be taking part in the slog the blog binge since I pump it out every day anyway. Seemingly sausage is now the number one meat choice in the UK. I do wonder if that is because it is relatively cheap. In recent years I have noted the sizzle of the gourmet sausage such as Venison and Tarragon endorsed by Igor Apronifico and similar culinary luminaries. I sometimes wonder how far this kind of kidology could go – maybe François Potagier’s Pheasant and Camomile Chipolatas? I reckon I know a few gourmo-snobs who would go for it.
Now – if you look at the above pic you may well wonder what it is. Last night was of course Halloween (La Toussaint). Eventually I heard a noise outside and took a shot with my camera hoping to startle them with the flash. After they had retreated with their haul of sweets I checked out the photograph. Now – perhaps the flash didn’t work or perhaps I was shaking with fear or perhaps……the Unthinkable. It all looks a bit spooky to me. Could be a whole new genre.
The headline shot today was sent by a friend in France who knows I am temping as a school bus driver. I believe the photo is from Morocco. Now, I know I complain a bit about my lot in life but well, all things are relative. I’m just so pleased that the bosses of the bus company are unlikely to see this image. I bet you there’s some bright shiny young thing with a modern tie and spiky gelled hair who’s just dying to wow them at the next cost cutting brainstorm meeting.
I note that as a foreigner I can’t win any of the NaBloPoMo Blogfest prizes. Well, I do not suppose I would be in the running but come on ….we gave the Fonz an MBE, or rather the Queen did. Next time I take tea with Her Majesty I may well raise the matter, although generally she raises this kind of issue with me first.
I’ve been walking quietly in the soft low sun as if I were still a poet. In the end my poem was one line, but so are we are we not?
Emma thinx: For each fallen leaf there is a branch with a memory.