Touching base with Blackbeard, this Easter
It be a month since my last interference. I start this diatribe in a similar manner to a confession because we have just been through Holy week, not because I actually wish to confess to anything. Do not think me insincere when I say that I love Holy week. It’s true. I’m still waiting for my own resurrection. Though mine would be more appropriately celebrated with cannon fodder, than eggs.
So, this is April, and what have we done? We have entered into the spirit of summer by doing what most Brits do; stripping ourselves to the minimum amount of clothing it is considered decent enough to get away with. In some cases, it goes beyond decency. Twas ever thus! The streets in the morning are less filled with the throng of commuters and more the mounting debris of the wastage incurred from the night before. What a time to be a wandering spirit.
Is holiday time a period for reflection, or for forward strategical planning? Perhaps it is for neither, or nothing other than enjoying it for what it is; a holiday. All I have is reflection, being dead as I am. By reflection, I mean ‘consideration’ and not that I can see myself in any mirrors. It doesn’t bother me, though. I do not sweat, I do not burn in the sun and I will never be the April fool. So, here’s to that, and here’s looking at you, Bristol.