Hello lums, after a self imposed exile on the Island of Lost Afflatus, I have kindled up the lum, and have began to reek once more.
"One armed waiters, eh! They can dish it out, but there not so good at taking it!" That was my favourite joke at this years Edinburgh Festival, that and "My mate Dave drowned, we got him a wreath the shape of a lifebelt, well, its what he would have wanted". I like jokes, Bob Monkhouse had a good one "People laughed when I said I wanted a career in comedy, well, there not laughing now". You of course are under no obligation to find them funny, and that's the great thing about jokes, the worst thing about them is they don't translate very well to a Blog, so before I diminish that little glowing GSOH kernel in the midst of your noggin , I'll not reek about them anymore.
Reasons for my extended muteness really boils down to not having a little notebook to jot things in when I see something curious or the least bit funny, I have a new one now. And also, I've been a bit morose, and missing home too much, and its hard to see anything humorous in anything when your in that mood, so instead of reeking for sympathy or depressing both the people that regularly tune in, I have kept schtum until the clouds lifted, which they have, hooray.
Or perhaps it has something to do with a curious episode in Covent Garden a couple of weeks ago.
After tackling the stairs, there are an incredible 192 of them. I know that from a little warning sign at the bottom, certainly not from counting them on the way up. I couldnt have managed that, not with the burning lungs, furiously protesting thigh muscles and the sweat stinging my eyes while trying to climb over the expired that went before, the desperate skeletal remains in their Mind The Gap T-shirts, still clutching faithfully to the handrail.
As I crawled, gasping, out into the throng of tourists, blissfully unaware of the hell going on beneath them, I fell into the clutches of a gypsy woman. She popped a sprig of something in my pocket and started stroking my palm with her long painted finger nail. Telling me how lucky i was about to become, and how I'll live a long and prosperous life without being a burden to anyone. All I had to do was keep these two crystals with me always. I say crystals, they looked more like half sucked spangles, and of course, cross her palm with silver. I did, with 3 pound coins, then she said, in her menacing gypsy rasp, what about some paper? That's when I got the use of my lungs back and told her to be happy with my already generous gift and stomped off. But I'm sure she must have hurled some pykie curse after me because on the two occasions I have worn the jacket with the spangles still in the pocket I have fallen asleep on public transport and endured horrific frightening journeys that Sinbad the Sailor would have baulked at.
First I woke up in a tube train in High Harrow which is as North West to my South East London destination as its likely to get, second time it was a bus as it stopped at Elephant and Castle just as the tube stations were shutting at midnight, of course, also just at precisely the same time the battery on my phone, therefore Google Maps, ran out.
I had to take the night bus lottery, jumping from one to the other hoping that each would get me closer to home. Deptford, Woolwich (scary) and finally Greenwich where I decided I was close enough to try walking, it was half past two by this time. I did walk, and walk and walk some more, finally hailing a cab near Greenwich park that carried me home arsus intactus and with no stab wounds or robberies.
Other developments include my gym membership. Yep, Lewisham Fitness First has a new disciple. It really is like the exercise yard at Shawshank in there. Lots of big hulking black guys, lifting free weights and looking dangerous. I meanwhile try not to bring attention to myself unloading weights off the machines, but the little clink-clink noise it makes when I'm er, pumping iron, kind of stands out against the clunk-clunk noise the machines make when they boys are on them. Still, its a start, I've been going a week and still haven't run more than a £3 taxi ride but I'm aiming to have a body like a Greek God, preferably not Greggzos, God of Pies.
That's enough from me, I have a few more things to tell you about another day. My London wide search for Buckfast, and why, The Flying Scotsman Pub, fly tipping and the most Irish pub in Ireland, in Lewisham.
Lang may yer lum reek.
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