|Our house is a very very very fine house etc.|
|Beneath the rusting corrugated iron roof the reflected battered head of a worn out pilgrim steps forth from the trees and shelters in the peace of timber and stone...for the time being.|
I am currently writing this through the vague and shaky medium of low speed, low resolution broadband. Every type stroke requires super human effort, every photo groans at the compression and pain of the upload process. Each mega-mite of data is squeezed and slowed down to the pace of a turkey crossing a field of indifferent bulls munching shattered turnips. Strangely eBay still works but the satellite signal is grainy, appearing in the guise of 1960's 625 lines rather than digital HD quality. We're out in the wilds. Living in the woods, parked up on mud, wild birds and rodents strike Disney poses and silence is everywhere. From the window mountains are visible in desolate magnificence. Perhaps we're working on a new album or experimenting with cooking techniques, perhaps we'll be eaten alive by ants or found frozen dead in our log cabin bed, perhaps we'll just do a little light reading. Nothing matters as it's all further figments of my imagination (apart from the nearest shop/pub/civilization being 16 miles away, effectively over the hills and far away) and I'm relaxing into the happy warmth of the unreal fate and surprises that holidays provide.