Post Card From Bournemouth UK

Dark drama at dawn as Phoebus warns of his impending absence 

October just sounds more like winter doesn’t it.  I always see it as an island month serving as a migration stop for birds and souls heading for the sun. Wiki tell me that there is an October Revolution Island and it is also the name of a 1952 novel by William March. Why has someone always done everything first? Why has someone always already said something that I wanted to say? Pre-emptive plagiarism is plundering my originality. Please don’t tell me someone has already said that! 

Now, I teased you with a sex toy in literature special. It’s coming but the research is taking a little longer than I imagined. I want to get it right. In the meantime I decided to use the last week end of summer to bask in the glory of the English sea-side.


Wedding photos on the sand. Just get me those shoes (and the figure)

As you know, I am a francophilly. I would still love to dance the can-can but for sure it would be the can’t can’t. England is the true land of the eccentric. We have everything from guys collecting the serial numbers on railway locomotives to people in their best clothes posing for wedding photos on the beach. Because I spend so much of my time in France I kinda see we Brits in a different objective way – ruthless creators of Empire queuing quietly for iPad 4s.

The day knew it was the last in the way that both you and I know we are the last that will be of the us-ness of us. 

 Sea birds balanced on the wind.
 People married on the sand.
 Guys in suits swigged beer from cans. 
 Christian surfers surfed, not sinned. 

Onward Christian surfers

Hey – I did a poem. Well let’s say the wonderful resort of Bournemouth wrote a poem. There is nothing on Earth like a British coastal resort town. And you know, I love you so so much for all my childhood castles, roundabouts and blue sky days. Thanks for having me back for your last stolen summer day. 

Hey – relax

And to round it off there’s a fabulous sculpture on the beach that says it all. And of course it’s all been said already. On Bournemouth sands I can connect nothing with everything. OK – you got me. T.S Elliot almost kinda said that.







Emma thinx:  Britannia Waives the Rules.




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