Whatever comes to mind before I alter it with the overpaint of time. Mostly satire, poetry and fiction but occasional unreliable fact, as all facts seems to be today. From deepest Notting Hill. London.
Friday, 1 July 2011
Rusty in Portobello, pink skies and pies.
My old mate Rusty McGlint has flown in from New Mexico for a few days. I took him to the Tab for a beer. On seeing the gingham tablecloths in the courtyard he burst into tears. 'What's up rusty' I asked.
'It's the tablecloths' he said. 'Remind me of Lula Mae's gingham chaps and handsome homemade pies. I miss that woman bad'.
He put on his pink shades to hide his teary eyes. curious, I asked to try them on. Wow who needs drugs.