Thursday, December 21, 2017


Earlier I explained that nothing is the single one, it's a matter of category, availability, and personal preference at that moment. At the time I was the 'consulting tobacconist' to the drunken element. The tobacco was Saint James Flake, by Samuel Gawith, in Kendall, Cumbria, which is somewhere in the boggy wastes. But the location of the pipe was on California Street, up from Polk, near where inebriants collide.

Item ONE: Mister V*S** has gone to bed. It is winter, his brother has gone back to Macao, the sound of Mahjong no longer comes from his apartment. During summer it had been a joyous constant.

Item TWO: The two young lovers in the doorway of the building down the street are seriously but amicably discussing the  progression of their affair. Quite likely it will involve strenuous physical excercise. I envy them.

Item THREE: The tipsy man outside stressed that the smell of certain pipe tobaccos reminded him of his granddad. I never knew my granddad; he passed before I was born.

Someone said I was the sage, the wise elder, the man with all the answers.
I do not believe that my answers are suitable.
What was the question?

Honestly, I do not know how Julie does it. She's the "consulting mom" to all the likeable sad-sack drunks who don't sing but just swill. I could not do that, I'd probably kick them instead.

She's the best.

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Confused in St Louis said...

Julie? You never mentioned her before.

The back of the hill said...

She and her husband are regulars at the local watering hole. They describe themselves as 'alcoholics', but they are actually more like good natured though evil enablers. Of alcoholics.

They sing pretty well.

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