These are just fleeting thoughts from the heartland of the UK's colonial dustbin somewhere beyond the wall of sleep. Odd bits of music and so-called worldly wisdom may creep in from time to time. Don't expect too much and you won't feel let down. As ever AI and old age are to blame. I'll just leave it there ...
Not so sure about coming back as a duck, but it really depends on the other options being offered up. Just take your time if you get the chance to choose. So, I've mentioned this before but @beetlemoses is currently my favourite cartoonist. That's all I have to say.
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One of these days I'm going to get myself one of those new fangled sheep floats. Oh yes! And I'll certainly have a nice day.
Robert Burns.
Some time in the 18th Century.
Near to Gatehouse of Fleet.
Or Fleethouse of Gate.
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"Freak out in a moonage daydream, oh yeah!" ("...and keep your 'lectric eye on me," while you're at it, if you don't mind.)
Those were the days when we dreamed of a sparkly, strange moon age. Nobody had the faintest idea what it meant. Maybe we stared at the moon like cats might. But it was just a tuneful comic strip of images and TV footage running through our heads. NASA could do no wrong.
The dream didn't last, and that age is long gone. It was the early '70s, though, and anything seemed possible, if you were a certain age. This cycle of life repeats endlessly as we thrive, look around and then die back into safe cover over time.
Now we're stuck in a Martian daydream. If anything, it's even less believable than the old moonage one.
Just another song that they don't play on the radio ... who listens to music radio anyway?
It was that kind of day. Some perpetual pop festival event as the stones were cut back into shape. Yes we have a portaloo. And I visited the Korean style supermart for good measure. Short sentences for crimes against ventriloquism. The tidy wee cake comes from Cupar in Fife. It takes a good photo. Sunny July. This is what blogging is all about.
Meet the budgerigars who are at home in the barber shop. A blue and a yellow. They live free and fly randomly across the shop. Thankfully they seem to be averse to flying out of the door and also shitting on the customer's newly shorn heads. They chirp but don't talk much and they have no names. But as a special treat(?) any kids in for a haircut can name them for the duration of their visit. Seems reasonable, giving permanent names to animals, ones that they didn't even ask for, is quite odd, when you think about it.
OK, I know that they have to be called something ...
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What event(s) led up to this being painted onto the chair?
Of course I asked my friends on AI Street, Cowdenbeath, (across from the Gothic themed data centre) if, as usual, I was deluded about this. Thankfully I'm not. Modern paint is a bit shit, boo! But it's also less dangerous and less likely to kill anything it touches, hooray!
A high quality modern exterior coating applied correctly can still last 10–15 years in suitable conditions, but the gap between premium and budget products is often larger than it used to be.
"So the perception that "paint isn't what it used to be" isn't just nostalgia. Some of the toughest old formulations were genuinely more durable because they used chemicals that are now restricted. The challenge for modern manufacturers is balancing longevity with safety and environmental standards, and the best products today generally achieve that balance better than the cheapest ones."
How's your paint work doing?
So is it more garden tat or the grave marker of an unknown Celtic warrior who we believe was killed during the Battle of the Binks in 975AD (approx)? You choose (please do so wisely and afterwards maintain a strict and respectful silence). We have made peace with all the local ghosts - apart from that poor monkey who was once held captive next door.
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