To catch a...
There is nothing like the demystifying of crime and an encounter with the hard edge of abrasive human nature to cause you to pause and check your relative position in this cracked universe. Loved ones and family always comes out on top, friends and employment follow, leisure and creative impulses fill the next few carriages of the derailed, steaming and hissing train wreck. Then it becomes a scramble to make sense of possessions and objects, tools and toys and knitted things we might use to keep out the cold. There in that new and sanctified panic room of refreshed learning and enlightenment you can give a clear and concise statement and let it hang in the moist air. Probably nobody will be listening but that doesn’t matter, it’s a reconciliation exercise that you need to undertake, more within than without, more found than lost, something, something, something. (I intend to keep my laptop in my cavernous boot and there are guards everywhere.)
So the bags of spoil and evidence were piled up on the table, sad and muddy after their ordeal, time out in the wild, unloved, rejected and almost returned to nature except for the intervention of Linlithgow’s finest. Our shopping list has diminished but the electrical goods remain out there in pubs, on eBay or Gumtree and the Sky card is in the back pocket of someone’s jeans. They were promised Sky Sports, Movies and all the good music channels when they handed over their forty quid, sadly all they got was Living, Sci-fi and Dave. He-haw.
So what’s done is done and I console myself with bottle of cheap red wine, a smoked sausage chopped up and basted in pasta sauce, eyeing up evolving plans to buy big dogs and bigger jeeps, because we can. There is no doubt we are where we are meant to be, I’m at a fizzy point of peace and I can load more free music up onto Jamendo as a charitable gesture of thanks to the rest of Europe, for still being there.