Of blue hair and bathmats, of wrapped and lost, of chances and misses

Say my life’s a funny thing.

Most times, people round this way can’t understand a word I say. Sure, cow-orkers get used to it, eventually, but still have issues when I fly off in tangential directions at ever increasing speeds. Like the misspelling of my name, I have gotten used to that over the years. (Not as many years as the misspelling, of course, as that has been around longer than I have been in Engerland. Norn Iron types understand me. In the dictive sense, of course. Oh look, it seems dictive isn’t a word. It is now.)

Riches I hold in light esteem,
And Love I laugh to scorn;
And lust of fame was but a dream
That vanish’d with the morn:

Therefore, imagine my suprise, my momentary bewilderment, when, as I was turning the soil last night, in my ongoing communion with the land, that not only was the right half of the island identified, but the very region of the county what-from-where-I’m-from. Hang on, thinks I, either he lived there, married a chick from there, or has to deal with people from there on a daily basis.

And, if I pray, the only prayer
That moves my lips for me
Is, ‘Leave the heart that now I bear,
And give me liberty!’

None of the above, it seems. His wife was with him, and unless she lost her accent long ago, is definitely South Cambs. Leaning on my fork (but still without a pipe in hand), I probed further. Aha, so he has both kafflik and proddysent friends. No, that isn’t much help. It seems he has, because of these friends, always wanted to go to Norn Iron, but hasn’t due to the issues that have now been resolved. (Note: As if. They haven’t.) So he knows a bit of the geography, and the rest I reckon was a lucky guess. Although his plan for solar panels to power a fridge in his shed for beer was interesting.

Yea, as my swift days near their goal,
‘Tis all that I implore:
In life and death a chainless soul,
With courage to endure.

Of course, one of the other old dudes (not that this one was old, but older than me, but what I am now implying is zimmer-frame use. Which isn’t sarcasm nor nasty, but in this case, the actual truth.) can’t really understand what I say. Over our discussion about comfrey (yes, life is that rock and roll) he asked me to repeat myself, and a few times just glazed over and nodded, pretending to understand what I said. That’s alright, again, I am used to people looking glazed when I talk. Not one of life’s heavyweights, me. Still, I got more allotment lore from him.

And entire post from maybe two minutes worth of conversations I had last night.

Finality