The shadow of a lover goes dancing by

I reckon I know who it was. But let us roll with it for a moment, letting me spin out the yarn in my own fashion. Which means black 501s and my Converse AllStars. With my most gorgeous moleskein jacket. I love decent jackets. I should buy some more. But this isn’t telling the story, is it? Have a picture. I would have taken it in Caitlin, but alas, due to the b0rked-ness of my kit lens, I can’t do such shots. Easily. Remind me to rant about things falling apart just out of warranty. Things today just weren’t built to last. Modern life is rubbish, as some rubbish pop band once named an album. Wait, I have gone off the topic, or boil, take your pick. Look again at the picture.

I jumped into Caitlin to head home, and there, magnetised onto the map light (yes, a real map light, in the shape of a torch, that swivels round so the passenger can see said map. Interior light? Where would that go then?) was that badge in that picture up there. Har-de-har, no? The usual suspect (for I can number the suspects on one finger, I think) will be hounded the morrow. OK, did you pick up the inference that I don’t lock my girl up during the day? Little point, for her canvas top would prove no resistance. Having said that, after being left for any time I doubt any chav-hoodie type could start here. Manual choke, chile, manual choke.

Plus, it is now my aim to buy several pages from original Modesty Blaise strips, probably from those excellent people at the Book Palace, who have so much art I could buy, frame, and hang on the wall. A triptych of Modesty would be fantastic.

Amy Winehouse, a warning, or a goal, for Joss Stone? Amy and Joss, erm, hubba-hubba-ing. Oh dear, that image will take some shifting from my head.