Typing is a little difficult am half way down joint 1.
Have contact lens in which is ideal for normal use but have to wear a pair of reading specs to make keyboard clear which in turn makes monitor fuzzy.

Washed and cleaned car, checked oil
Filled up washer reservoir, well named, I put in three litres and still wasn’t full.
Talking of litres, went for petrol 330 for 30 litres!
Checked tyres, a couple were down 5 lbs, should be a smooth ride down.

One thing about my old car the Rover 200, it rides well. Really smooth, cushions the bumps.
Unlike my Father’s Corsa which seems to actively seek out any deviation in the road, however small and delight in producing a spine jarring bolt as it traverses each infidelity in the tarmac.

O.K. I’m 6 foot four so I cannot grumble when my head touches the car roof, destroying hair style and causing one to adopt a slight head on one side approach to driving. The seat is also not comfortable for a tall, well built person but it rides well and sound system is o.k. so therefore it merits the lavish attention I spend on it twice a year when it gets cleaned.

How to be idle and have a clean car.
Wash thoroughly give it a once in its lifetime clean. Then using cheap furniture polish get as many layers as you can onto the paintwork, take two or three days to build it up.
Leave out in rain.
All but the stubborn seagull shit is effectively moved in even the lightest of rain.

Don’t think I can cope with doing spell check while viewing through these specs.
Sounds are lively and providing inspiration.

I think of having second joint, I still have lots I should be doing in preparation, looks like the clothes which have been waiting to get ironed this year will have to wait, at least I’ve got them washed, that’s a good start!
Tried ironing last year, once, didn’t get too keen on the idea.

A grey mist softens the edges of the Plasma giving an effect akin to putting grease on the camera leans to produce a softer shot.
I first think the specs are dirty then remember I’ve just put lens in. three or four quick blinks and the situation is rectified, vision restored.

Must remember to give lens a good clean and look for a spare pair. Will have to buy some new ones in Skegness, hence the prescription from the opticians in the glove compartment.

I once got arrested in Scotland, took my lens out in the cell, they dried up and I was set free into a strange city without the power of sight. I knew the power of my lens and told the assistant in the Opticians same information but she replied she needed a prescription before she could sell me some replacements.
Lesson learned.

Felt very vulnerable had been on a bender of late nights, booze an dope, eating little and sleeping rarely. Paranoia sat in and around my mind like a comfortable scarf around the neck.
I was slap bang in the middle of an episode. Familiar appearing faces with strange voices, familiar voices coming from strangers!
Hallucinations,
Feeling hunted, at odds, in a game myself against everyone and everything.
Frightened, feeling so but unsure what of, as if the object of fear was something intangible possibly not even of the known world.
My senses were still working, I realised that walking around in trousers and tea shirt covered in blood and showing signs of a recent head injury doesn’t make for creating the correct first appearances.
I soon lost perception of my appearance, i.e. no longer bothered about how I looked after having a wash in the local boozer while partaking of a half of tap water, I was also skint.
When you look back not a lot was going in my direction.

I forgot to add I had recently been trying to quit smoking and had been off the baccy a week.
So I soon found the first dog end and rerolled it, yes, always carry joint papers.

I was skint, paranoid and blind in Dumfries.

I was in Dumfries because I wanted to see again a woman I had met a few years earlier in Catalonia. We had only a short time to get “acquainted” before my partner at the time, realising I wasn’t in bed had come to the lobby to find me, arm round her can in hand, laughing and joking.

She did have time and this could be the reason I remember her so well, to tell me she was a landlady and that her pub, a Weatherspoons in Dumfries had been selected for an expensive restoration which was to last four years,
I’d joked and said, “I’ll see you in four years time”, as my partner dragged me back upstairs to the confines of the double bed.
The chain of pubs had just the week before told of its intention to supply water free of charge so another reason for me to visit the pub and indeed she was there.

Very bubbly person, easy to talk with, laughs nicely and often,( hell it was about three in the morning when I met her!)
And she has a very interesting pub inside a brilliant building of almost Cathedral interest.

I will return again soon.

Although suffering from the above, whilst sitting on a bench with a head full of bees I was brought back to reality.
A guy gave me sandwich, he said I looked liked I needed one.
I thanked him and he dismissed it.
I was getting one for myself, and this time of day you get two for one.
I’d finished the sarnie by then and was able to once again thank him and assure him I enjoyed it.

A obviously well heeled lady offered me money in the local charity shop when she saw me at the counter with a selection of items but not enough money to buy everything.

It was after that I sat in the main thoroughfare are watched and took notice of the passers by.
There’s one hell of a lot of disabled people in Dumfries, and there’s some little people.

I love them, I used to have two close friends who were dwarfs, and of course it was hilarious to onlookers to see me and my mates enter a pub and me to order drinks then pick em up and put them on the bar stools to save me bending to talk with them.
One guy I met was a dwarf with leg problems,
“I told him to take it easy and slow down, he did seem to struggle to walk,
He stopped, came closer and informed me that the council had installed benches the full length of the road and he could take a break whenever he wished.

Disabled and aged friendly town.
Also a very busy place at night.
Found lots of pubs advertising entertainment.
Notice boards were full of information about concerts and other events, meetings and societies posted notices.
Banners spanned the road telling of Arts events coming to the town.

Cultured.

Hell I remember thinking, I’d love to live here, a picture of the barmaid’s face and another of the sign saying restoration was almost complete flashed momentarily.
I for a second or two thought I could be happy here.

Another reason for thinking it would be a good place to settle was me spying the local dealer doing deliveries in the pubs.

I listened to some of the music coming from the odd open flat window and none of it was the usual junk pop but techno, I sat for quite a while on one bench listening to the sounds and watching the customers of the nearby pavement café.

Dumfries is definitely one place, which has made an impact on me.
Possibly that impact was made all the more exaggerated because of my condition, I hadn’t chosen to go there, indeed the police had took me there to appear in court the day after the accident.

I never was at my best when first woken up so the Police had picked the wrong time to try to “have a word”.

I never did anything wrong, I hasten to add.
I had put a wrench through the back window of my own car in disgust following the accident in which the drivers seat had come adrift.
Fined £250 criminal damage.
Those lads don’t fuck about, in, fined, out.
No waiting for weeks there.
You wake up, appear in court before you’ve time for a shit.

Thinking back it was a steep charge for one night’s accommodation in the cell. The steps up into the court room are definitely not disabled friendly.
Success upon reaching the chamber is rewarded with a glimpse of the beauty of the room.
Domed ceilings, elaborately and ornately painted, authentic, pleasing to the eye, and tall.
I spent my time in the dock looking up at the ceiling, I answered one question said guilty and was fined and told to go.
I was still gawping at the ceiling when led away.

After pondering over my situation for most of the day and trying ot think what had happened, how I was to survive the cold night and where the hell was the police station where I’d been processed.
I did find the police station and used the toilets to freshen up.
I stood in the foyer for a few minutes but no one seemed to care about my presence so I left.
If I’d known that there was £800 belonging to me behind the counter my worries would have been eased somewhat.

But I didn’t and so resumed my trek.

Why had I been parted from my money? You ask.
Simple I had thrown it away; cast it before the wind in a local garden centre car park. £800.
I had decided I had no need for it and threw it away.

Hard to believe but every note was returned to me after I had travelled home.

Not one person had been tempted to pick up the twenty flying around in the wind and place it in their pocket!
Un- fucking believable but it is true.

I pause for Joint two.
Grateful for chance to remove specs.

The idea of the writing so far has been to make it as difficult as possible for the potential long-term reader to learn too much at any one point.

I gave the warning on the blog page, perseverance is needed to get the reward for reading.
Mundane daily entries soon piss of the optical surfer.
Technical pages earlier on piss off the non-computer users.
Disjointed ramblings also serve to blow away some of the remaking die hards.
Delving into self-improvement, hypnosis, health care and general non-religious material shaves a lot more away from the kebab.

Who would be able to read it and keep up with the threads, which are delicately placed in irregular entries?

Hell I don’t even read it so am I really expecting anyone else to?

NO.

I do not read books, haven’t read for decades nothing but non-fiction.
I therefore have no influences having only partly read his wife’s version of Billy Connolly, apart from that my reading has solely been Goons scripts and Spike’s own publications.
All of which have now been lost!

A few years ago my writing was merely scribbling in my own short hand, a tally of changes made to operating system, things to remember etc.
To make the keeping of such records fun I made up episodes of the little people, the almost unseen hordes of computer users who try and fail to climb up the prickly fir tree of success. Falling to the ground as they lose their precarious perches from the ever-thinning upper branches.

I kept section separate on the hard drive, one section was factual, almost manual like.
I don’t know about you but I find the following very off-putting.
You pay nearly a grand for a laptop and monitor and the manuals seem to have been written by an illiterate youngster.
Why don’t some of these companies just spend the extra few bob to get someone to write correctly the manual in another language?
I lose faith in the equipment straight away.
I wrote the changes and actions I’d had to perform in order in the form of a self teach manual.
Hell I was stoned most, correction all of the time so instructions had to be spelt out clearly.

When you are spending 6-8 weeks trying to fix a security problem you do a lot of changing to the system!

Cheers bill, I didn’t know the system was a forgery.
You got your money from me in the end I gave up and bought a kosher systems disc.

An enjoyable place to stay if you were to consider visiting the truly amazing town of Dumfries is a place known as Torwood House.

I will take you on a written virtual tour.
First I will spark up.

The directions, tariffs, list of amenities, range of activities, menus,personal info is to be found on the website.

You follow the mile or so of windy single lane track. Past fields of nothing in particular, scrub land.
A small wood appears and you have arrived.

The entrance is through a small lane, huge ruts in the road force the driver to be very slow and careful; keeps caravanners out!

Trees line the lane which soon takes you along side the first lake with a log cabin to your left.
Seat and table carved from stumps, carved is the wrong word, fashioned is more fitting a description.
The male of the partnership, manages the woodland and you can see his efforts to rebuild the hedgerows providing thick secure residence for the dwindling small bird population, which is being pressured by the growing population of birds of prey.
His efforts have been worthwhile because bird life exists everywhere among the trees and shrubbery.
Your tyres then begin to scrunch on the gravel of the car park which opens up in front of the second lake only a few feet from the front door of an amazingly looking correct for the situation, house.

Huge medieval front door, arched, heavy thick, secure.

Now at one time your arrival would have been met by a three legged dog called Sam and his friends the cancerous red setters, possibly a cat may look around the corner of the building to give you a quick glance before the ducks and chickens came to investigate.
Or you may be lucky and be treated to the sight of a deer stood in the car park.

You could be approached by an oddly dressed bearded old man resembling an aged woodsman, that is your host Dave.
He will probably shake your hand pick up a few logs from near the door and invite you to follow him.
You are now sat at the bar, wood burning fire and been offered a drink.
Stuffed fish, flies, heads, all bloody sorts of things are hung on the walls.
A fox’s head above the bar door.
The whole house and cabin are full of ”Antiques” and almost everything has a price and is therefore available to buy.
The pictures in the passages in your room, all have a price ticket on.

If you happen to have any Antiques or whatever hanging around take them with you and you will be given a price above accommodation in return for purchase.
That right?
Yes.

Whatever you needs, interests this man will bend over backwards to get things arranged.
Probably best to ring him to arrange any outings fishing, shooting or whatever and he can arrange boat for sea fishing, days on local lakes or simply allow you to fish the three lakes outside the front door.
One of which is dark, deep and contains an otter, which will come out and sniff around your feet if you stand still enough at night time.
The other is a stock pond which gives usually plenty of practise if one is trying to get one’s arm back in.
It sharpens the senses.

Third lake has wild rainbows and must be full because I was rewarded within minutes on three different outings, fish will be cooked for meal if require, obviously venison is also available and purchase of body can be arranged, I believe.

I return to the front door meeting and you will have been shown a room.
True the rooms are not five star but hell its not a five star hotel.

As the man will tell you, its his home and you are welcome to join him.

You will soon realise that during the daylight hours this man is busy.
He works the estate, works in the house, the restaurant, organises fairs and of course travels to and from Antiques auctions etc.

But come the night and all his tasks completed he is happy to keep you company in the bar.
Talk about anything you care to mention, argue his point if right and generally provide good crack.
Will tell you all you want to know abut himself and his time at Torwood house, how he answered a request in the national paper for someone to save a part of Scotland.

In full flow he is a top storyteller, and you know I love a good story teller.

Salt of the earth.

You’ve seen the room, been told the water supply is sometimes dodgy and been shown the toilets both resident and public.
There is an amusing graphetti wall in the gents.
I return t the bar;
There is a television, which is sometimes on in the morning, sometimes turned on for the evening news and silent unless requested the rest of the time.
And its not a fucking great big plasma.
There is music available but generally not used. A small library and selection of games is mixed up among the piles of freebie newspaper issued music discs.

I can recommend one book, a fishing book, which details the birth of some of our more established lakes and tells of the author/fisherman’s exploits, mainly with the fly of course.

Bar is small, serves a wicked pint of Guinness, landlord has a good collection of fine Port, very fine!
As I said earlier wood burning stove, really is comfortable on a night, ideal for nipping in and getting a warm if fishing outside in unkind weather, also good excuse to have a swift one, no worries about opening hours.

I was going to say there was a room dedicated to the owners antique collection but he tends to move the room around depending on any development plans.

Yes the old house does get subjected to various minor changes and renovation to bring it into the current century.

You never know who you will meet, a couple of guys parked their Rolls Royce next to my Skoda, ended up getting drunk with me and fishing for the first times in their lives the very next morning, with me and two sore heads.

On the other hand there’s me.

You could meet me!.#
What more can I say?

All are made welcome and their individual needs catered for.
Its friendly, genuine and oh so fucking relaxing.

You wander, malt and ice in hand, from the bar, walk a few paces feel the huge door close behind you and step onto the gravel.
Its late at night and once you stop walking all is silent, not a noise, save for the call of the birds in the woods.
Theses birds sing all day and night.
Look up at the clear skies, buttoned with bright stars.
Stroll a few more steps and look at the darkness of the water, yur eyes become acclimatised to the dark and you notice the different depths of black in the solohutes of the trees.

A minutes’ walk and you are alongside the first lake, even denser in its blackness. You sit n the tree stump and listen to nothing.
An appreciative sip of the drink lowers your head towards the water and you watch the movement around the stump of the nearby immersed tree trunk.
Standing up to get a closer view and there it comes.
Out of the water and busying itself sniffing the bottoms of your jeans and boots.
Apparently unafraid and tame as hell the otter continues to sniff around you and then returns to the water, retuned twice more that night, I was lucky.

The intensity of the night is only equalled by the intensity of the silence.

The web site describes all the other information.
I found it totally by mistake.
I had merely asked a couple of monks in the nearby religious place where
“The nearest boozer was?”

I often wish I had the money to afford to return and stay in the cabin for a fortnight and simply fish to my heart’s content. Eat in the restaurant every night, and listen to sounds till day break.

Maybe some day.

If you like laid back breaks in nice surroundings I recommend Fairmount in southern Ireland.
Fantastic accommodation sleeps up to six.
Be greeted and tormented by a pack of the friendliest sheep dogs you will ever meet.
Don’t leave hiking boots outside within their reach.
Apart from that word of warning the place is ace.

Its not an easy place to find despite it being a racing horse stud and working farm. Try to get a ferry that will give you sufficient time to find the place in daylight.

We arrived nearing midnight and by pure chance I chose a lane entrance to park up for the night having scoured several unlit single track lanes.
I switched on the headlamps full beam and there it was in all its glory.
Shit were we relieved it had been a bitch of a long drive from here to Holyhead and from Dublin to Fairmount.
Would have been fine if father had kept up the pace on the decent rods but no he had decided to follow me but stick to the speed limit.

Having one time made national headlines by picking up four speeding tickets in less than an hour you probably recognise the make haste while the light lasts approach to finding unknown destinations.

Couldn’t pick a better place to base for touring. Few minutes from Shannon bridge, suits fisherman, lakes canals, streams rivers, keys, lochs, whatever you could wish for.

People are fucking excellent, crafty, sneaky, good humoured, happy to please, eager to help, courteous, extraordinarily open, honest and grateful.

The accommodation has two separate entrances, you walk in one which is the recognised front door of a farmhouse. The shower and toilet and next to you, passage leads to rear bedroom two singles, next is double bedroom and then you enter into the farmhouse kitchen, fully equipped and adjoining front room complete with gas assisted peat burning stove, I’d ask for instructions, saves a lot of unnecessary effort if one tries to figure it out.
Had me beat for a while!
There’s also central heating.
There is a set of double doors, which open into a conservatory from where you can sit and gaze over acres and acres of farmland. Watch the horses going around the exerciser , horses free in the field around you , daft sheep dog pups trying to catch swallows. Playing games with a ball whilst learning the skills for later working.

Table and chairs outside on patio ideal for early morning breakfasts,
Once again you have to watch all the dogs at once if they decide to join you.
Magpies, starling, jays and crows will come down onto the lawned area outside to fight over any scraps.
Early damp mornings will see the grass in front of the window covered with birds seeking worms, doesn’t take much watching to see a few lucky ones.
There’s a bookcase and one book in particular still remains there I hope, not a religious book more a book about a state of mind.
Amer cama something like that.
Brilliant book if like me you are a section reader, you can read the chapters in any order and everything will still make sense.
In fact, thinking about it, your choices may bring about a different idea of what the book is indeed about.
Hell I only managed two readings.

There’s a trend starting, I’ve left a book in two places and lost my heart to a landlady who will never remember me!

I stated earlier that I hadn’t read that much in the past few decades but I have been able to find the time when on holiday in my most memorable places for a break.

I have to be in the mood to read and often it must just be the surroundings, which have led me to spend time reading.
To find a place where time can be forgotten and you allow yourself the privilege of reading without the need to be, i.e. not seeking an answer or further information.
That book in Ireland really got to me at the time, I remember ranting so much about it that rather than let me do as I stated I was. And to half inch the book when we left.
My partner went to the local bookshop and asked for a copy.
She told of me reading it while on holiday in one sitting,
The owner said it wasn’t that type of book to be read like that.

The second time I read it while on holiday I was reading differently looking for anything, any more nuggets I may have missed the first time.
I then decide if I was to become even the slightest bit religious it would have to be a religion which affected me as much as the words of that book and to supply me with equal sense of well being.
I remember signing the visiting book,
Truly an amer corner experience.
I know that’s the name of a singer but that was what I must have used to help me remember the book’s existence.

My bladder sent a desperate plea for assistance to my brain as I made myself a whisky, orange and water.
I fought back and repressed the pleas while finishing off a single skinner.
Because I knew, as all stoners know when it arrives.
It was time to piss and despite having had only pint of tea since walking the five foot from ny bed, I knew, I sensed,
It was going to be a right stoners’ piss.
I knew it was going to be a long, easy unhurried almost mystical piss and…
Therefore quickly calculated if I would be able to stand for the duration, I decided no.
So stagger to toilet, drop lid, trackie bottoms and sit heavily upon the docking station, rollie in hand, ready for those minutes of blissful release.
Start of pissing near the rim, in imminent danger of getting wet, then slowly the aim is lowered until with emphasis on relaxation the last few drops trickle over the scrotum.
The usual deep intake of breath follows and life returns to normal, warts and all.

Can’t beat a piss when you’re stoned, a shit when constipated and hard-boiled egg.

Long way from Ireland to my loo.

Fucking Dublin! Overflowing with drinkers onto the street and into the road, you have to be careful trying to negotiate the rat run of the road following the canal.
Go like hell at the lights or you will get cut out, count seven bridges on your left and you are out into the Irish countryside.
The above was the advice given to me by a friendly taxi driver when I had asked for directions.
Just prior to that my father had took us through a checkpoint, realised his mistake. Done a u turn and gone back through the security barriers.
I obviously had to pay to go firstly in the wrong direction and of course was faced with a barrier and a machine for money when I also did a u-turn.
The guards were not well pleased when I argued my case for a freebie!
Fucking guns!
I have never liked, had any attraction towards guns and shooting.
Until I was offered a go at clay pigeon shooting, whilst staying in Torwood House.
I had several goes, was surprised at how easy it was and clipped a consistent number of clays, my strategy being to find a piece of sky that the clay passes, wait there and ambush it as it approaches.
Worked for me.

Now where do we go to Scotland or Ireland?
My time in Wales, some thirty years ago now holds memories for me, I ran a home for the homeless in Port Mead and spent all the time screwing every available piece of female in the are, and boy there was a plentiful supply.

I leave that section for a later date it was quite an amusing and eye opening experience, teaching me of how charities work.

Shit, I’d hate to be a serious writer trying to build upon an idea each day, putting meat on the bones to fatten up the whippet of a storyline.

If someone had said write about Fairymount.
I wouldn’t have spent the time trying to tell of my first encounter with a book, title of which escapes me, ( as much obviously does!).

The book never offered guidance, spiritual of otherwise, just possibly attainment of insight into some of the less discussed aspects of our material being.

I am loath to mention the little people, but without a basic knowledge of some of the beliefs, rituals etc you cannot begin to understand the shaping of the countryside. Or the beliefs which governed generations of people.
And I am in no way referring to anything appertaining to modern times and troubles.

I was brought up with the troubles of Ireland and saw its effects on a friend of mine who very nearly cracked up after shooting a child.
I actively ignore television news, and seldom seek out much news on the web so I visited Ireland simply as a guy with a video camera who likes a bit of fishing and enjoys proper Guinness served correctly in an environment, licensed of otherwise which rejects the limits of time.

I’d like to say to you all get there and see Ireland but I’m afraid it’s a little too late. You will find out for yourself the changing of the countryside following the use of EU grants to rebuild and piece of stonewall and claim half an acre to build whatever you want upon.

Just my opinion.

I look at the clock, mid afternoon and not a thing packed.
I decide to have a nap. Or at least an hour or so laid on the bed listening to sounds.
After the next joint, obviously.

That thought appeals to me so I break to make.

My fucking tea shirt, once white, looks like I’ve been sparked on, black ash marks everywhere.

My question for any stumble upon reader would be.

If writing reflects mood.
What mood am I in today?

I remember my whisky and take a generous slug, two mouthfuls swallowed and it warms its way to my gut.
I’ve extra loaded this joint to make sure my above plan is not sabotaged by any thoughts of doing any alternative activity.

Sounds are pulsating and heavy.

Why lay on the bed to listen to music/
Well, apoart from the obvious why not?
I have another reason, I hate being in control, I used to be a control freak couldn’t listen to music without exerting some form of control over it.
Swinging sounds from speaker to speaker, side to side, quiet passages amplified to limit almost and quirt parts played on separate speakers, fading and returning several times before dying to rebirth from another speaker to the left, centre, behind wherever all the while woofer doing its bit.
I was worse with the virtual gear, fading out instruments, fucking about with tempo, transposing through several octaves cutting, looping anything which proffered control was my proffered tool at one time until one day when working on putting everything I would ever need to function as a television watching, video using. Computer user who plays instruments, into one, compact, home entertainment system which was originally planned as a retro project using all the soon to be abolished equipment.

I then realised it was time to pop my head out of the cave and see what the real world was doing.
Fucking mobile this and that and digital this, equipment for this that and the other and all with controls!

There was a revolution coming, the likes of which mankind has not previously experienced, the impact of which cannot fully be gauged.

Or so I was led to believe, I still have the digital, HD ready TV, have had for a few years now and am still waiting!
Fucking good job its primary function is as monitor.
Now I’ve been told I have to pay for HD!
Bandwidth is going to be auctioned off when the switch over frees it up and we will get?
What?, I’ve seen fuck all but shite on this telly since buying it, very few programs of worth.
I tried Freeview and even Virgin, I’mI’sorry I’m not into crap Yank programs,
How many times do I want to be fed with “Classic” repeats?
I did however take the chance to relive childhood memories and watch a bit of the program about the birth of children’s television and in particular chance to see the magic Roundabout, and Noggin the Nog again.

Wonder how many pages today?
I did think that if I wrote often enough, wrote anything then I would develop a style of writing but in truth the only person ever to comment on my style was an old History lecturer,(Economic History, I hasten to add).
Never had time for too many names and dates.
He said my style was completely unacceptable for answering question on an exam.
He added he found the easy going style easy to read and quite enjoyable.
I cannot as yet see any difference in my style of writing now as then.

Perhaps I should give up?
But why? When I get as much pleasure from it as I do playing keyboards.

I decide single skin, make a appropriately sized fold in the shirt front and lay skin gently in restrictions of fold.
Another paper crumpled serves as roach.
Pinch of baccy dust to provide accelerant, block warmed, crumbled, rocks placed into order with finger end.
Spark up.

Mouth dries up almost immediately upon first draw.
Whisky sorts it!
Only because it’s the only drink there, I add, tea would be sufficed.
He mentioned tea, could that have been this passages link to the last?

No just good fortune.

You see, one can think of going to bed to chill but one has to know when the body is really ready for it, i.e when the stone is peaking and when you naturally feel like lying down because a few of the bodies abilities, especially oin terms of mobility are ceasing to function.
And of course when the keys are covered in ash.
Bon soir.
One more piece of advice choose your oppotunity to wipe the ash off the keys carefully. avoid doing such action after entering a password for example!
Bon soir.


Quick lay done, up, skin and here again!
When I first laid down all the things I have yet to do were spinning round but I soon swept them away and allowed myself the comfort of a few minutes r+r whilst trying to ease complaining back and neck.

I make no small issue of the fact that cannabis is to me the most effective painkilling substance I have been able to get hold off.
Without it I would never have got through some of the worse times when I was virtually laid out, immobile, not daring to move lest I offend muscles of neck or back.

Can be a twat trying to get one’s spine back into line and cannabis lends a hand.
As is assistance in turning a neck of twisted steel fibres into flesh and blood for as long as it is able.
Because it doesn’t work every time but by God when it does and for differing lengths of time you are virtually pain free, those are the times you remember.

I make a mental note to retreat and choose a different direction.

Bumping nose first into the four directions I realise that I did say upon returning from Ireland that there is still a lot of my own area I haven’t really looked at, I’d seen it but not looked at it. I vowed then to do some touring the next time I had time.
And lo and behold I now find myself with time to kill and a mood to kill it.

I hate to think what clothes I will end up arriving with!
Hope the intended bath will bring reality floating back.

I use the weed for so many reasons.
To get stoned in company.
To get stoned alone,
which we all know are two different stones.
To take note of the sounds and appreciate same,
to help me relax and be concentrating on the task in hand and not the pain.
To feel separated for a while from the world outside.
To be free of any feelings of guilt for the atrocities carried out by others.
To prolong sexual activity, heighten senses, allowing gentle, quiet exploration of those senses.
Sorry guys, Viagra or smoke, give me a smoke, and her a couple!
I use it to put myself into various states of mind, reflective, positive, problem solving, etc, allows you to adopt different heads.
I enjoy being in the company of some stoners, not all.
I enjoy the belief that I am able to breath easier when stoned.
Multi lateral thinking becomes the norm.
?
You add some.

I pour myself a drink and decided to finish the Whisky as well as the Baccy off before the end of the night.
Drink, three or four mouthfuls then try to descale the teeth, the remaining teeth that haven’t yet succumbed to the damage from smoking.

I now have to decide another joint now or save baccy dregs till later?
No brainer!
Spark.

Last of baccy, but enough of block to run to a carefully measured out joint each night, for at least three nights.

I know that this will not be last joint because the contents of the ashtray will come into play.

Grammar check is fighting me all the way down the line, don’t know why I put up with it but has helped when needed.

Writing whilst stoned is like the drunken conversations held every day in every boozer in the land,
Well maybe not every one; some have been deserted when inspected on off chance.
Aye, off chance of there being someone actually in apart from the stupidly young looking staff who outnumber you several to one!
Forgotten in between rounds.

That’s why Pot heads don’t write books, could never decide upon a title to describe it.

I move my head several times from side to side and gauging the neck pain present on a scale of 1 to 10 it is hovering over a mild three at the moment.
Sin Glory Hallelujah, Glory to the weed, I say Amen, my man.

Yes it does that sometimes, as well.

Memory of pain, i.e. recollection of what could happen if you moved just that little bit more to the left. AAAAgh.
You get the picture?
You remember the pain by the latest bout, and compare all others to that, thus when the weed does kick in you are well aware of the degree of the relief because you are aware, only too well of how it last felt or sounded like when movement was tried.

Pain the neck can be a pain in the butt,
Your neck and shoulders adopt weird positions then as if to give you plenty of time to appreciate the ludicrously of such a position they lock forces and go solid, uselessly solid.
In term use returns and a flood of relief flows through the body.
You have to have the patience to wait and the belief that they Will return.

The first time I lost use of my legs, I was gob smacked.
I’d thrown my head onto the floor instead of getting out of bed.
My legs were still there in situ, dead to the world, no feeling whatsoever.
Partner touched me and I felt zilch.

Doctor arrived gave me two tablets and said to wait for them to return.
Fuck I waited ever so patiently, all the time my mind was racing is this is?
The ordained paralysis, which I’d been told to expect.
Surely not, I’ll fight it.
But how?
I was powerless to induce any form of movement in either leg or part of.
God, did I do some thinking that day!
I decided I would always have an empty syringe and if the paralasis was to be from the neck down then I would need help achieving my aims.
My partner and I had agreed she would help me, but only if the coin feel with the neck option.
Not much difference in odds anyway.

Not easy waiting for something to happen and seeing bits and pieces of you become useless in their purpose, i.e. a spine capable of working as designed without so much pain.
A neck which can actually support the bloody head without stiffening up so much as to become rigid.

I have lived with pain all my life and have got to know it very well, so well in fact that I have learnt to use pain as a weapon against itself.
I inflict pain upon my spine and the muscles surrounding the lower back, I do this my concentrating upon a group of muscles of section of bone and contorting it in whatever direction as to inflict pain.
You soon reach a level where each of the two levels are approaching equal then you inflict just a little extra, hurts for a while but then the pain seems to have been cancelled and a brief respite will follow.
Many only be a few minutes or it could if successful lead to a less than normal pain ed night’s sleep.

Did I forget to mention earlier.
Aids sleep.

I break to make.
Spark.

While I was laid out, I was thinking.
If I could write a book, what type of book would it be?
Answer, a talking book.
Writing is o.k. for writers who have a mind to write and readers who feel equally compelled to read.
What about the spoken word?

I love to listen to something being read than actually balancing a book or looking at the monitor, a spoken book with a musical audio backdrop.
Chill out vibes,
It does what it says on the bottle!
Radio 777.
Just a word from our sponsor.

I wish, how successful and entertaining on a daily level would a site be to warrant payment for use of name, brand service etc.

Payment for services=life.

Is that your idea of life?
You work you get paid you enjoy.

The Net radio is in deep shit, they cannot afford the royalty payments.
If advertising is the answer.. what is the problem.

Are people and companies right to increase royalties?
Do we need the old music machine to control our listening?
I for one think not.
Get rid of your collections and free the mind, open up the senses to stimulation not mutilation and self generation.

The advertising beast rules the world as much as dear old George predicted big brother would.
They have your banking, Insurance, Health plan, shopping both high street and on line, preferences, Your spending capacity, you savings capacity, home, insurance, car insurance, all details.
Together with dental records, digitised or whatever Passport control, birth certificates, access to bank details, driving license, computer linked criminal records,
Now they want us to have I>D> cards.
Can’t be arsed to correct!
To provide important information to assist in the fight against terrorists or whatever.

How much more information do they want to be privy to?

Just give us all a box standard computer with cam and you can fucking sit and watch us inside as well!
Seem to have hitten a nerve, which I wasn’t even previously aware, annoyed me.

I stil remember being informed that six people in the vicinity of the 9/11 were carrying fake I>D. nearly right.
So what good is I>D> cards?
I’m tempted to scroll up and see where I was coming from but I’ll resist as I always do and keep up the tradition of not reading anything, once it is done.

If I did that I’d be trying to compose something like a story and this isn’t.
It’s just a guy who cannot walk through the fields of his youth travels instead through the memories of his meadow like mind.
Yow!
Spun out of that one just in time. Too fucking deep a hole for me.

There was a program recently which described the mating of two animals as.
The male bites the female and remains stuck to her and she slowly breaks down his body and eats him, leaving only his testacies to mark his one time presence.

I would really like to do that to someone I knew before I died.
Just before I died I meant. Moments in fact.
Not hanging onto her nose end for years waiting to diaper into ones own scrotum.

Isn’t it funny grommet what you think of when you have the wrong head on.

Now I refrained from naming the partner in question,
But she will know who she is, I’m sure and will smile at the thought.

Wonder how many woman would be as eager to have a pair of balls swinging above their nose if they new they would remain there afterwards as a sign of successful copulation.
Much interruptus,

I promised myself not to write about anything as offensive as sex so will steer gently away.

I remember the Whisky oath and partake of one.
Equivalent of a three quid pub measure slips nicely down.

I refill and drain the bottle.
Result!

To celebrate I decided to skin up the last joint of the evening.

Don’t forget, seven I clock off.

The remnants of 15 joints are used to make last one and it is pretty well self-loaded so I merely top the survivors up.
I always load my joints to the roach so re-rolling is always a feasible option.

I’ve set smouldering one of the joint husks in the ashtray.
Hope the neighbour doesn’t call the fire brigade, she is keen!
And fucking nosey, but at least I’m being watched over.
That’s another tale of events the night previous to my second stay in hospital.

I bow my head slowly to stare at the ashtray and resign myself to the fact that that was absolutely the last of the baccy and therefore this is indeed the last joint of the day.
And I feel so sad.
While toking as energetically as I can.

I have an hour’s television viewing ahead of me and then a quick bath, back to reality and tackle the necessary.

How am I enjoying the holiday?
Fine thank you.

Perhaps I should have saved a little bit more of the lump but you don’t want to scrimp,
When you’re on holiday.

Trouble is my neck and back still ache.
The stone will reach a higher plane and I am for the most part of me useless.

I write that and leave it because it was what was in head so it comes out just like all the rest of the written diaherrea, can never spell that word.

Smoking weed when you are older is a whole different ball game.
You are often alone and listening to whatever decade of remembered songs you have chosen and because the glory of old songs is the memories associated with them you tend to dwell a little to long in worship of the produce of the time.
Stick with me, this is like swimming in honey.
I can’t swim in fucking water!

I choose to listen a, most exclusively to sounds never before heard and therefore avoid the triggers of memory influx and can keep mind open and therefore more receptive to stimulation.
Shit, I’m glad knocking off time is due soon.
I’m not daft enough to give myself set times to write, I never know what time I will emerge, but on the odd times when writing seems to be easier I restrict myself to a seven o’clock knock off.
Happens to co-incide with soaps.
I am a sad old hector!

I near the last few draws of the joint and the dying minutes of the self imposed shift.
The final sentences, linger, jostling for position to be written as the finale to a cabaret performance in writing anything, everything. And nothing.
Whilst seeking guidance from the powers of a humble leaf.
And bud, and solid and…you get the picture?

Amen to that brother.