Today
the weather suspends precisely between sun and rain. All day we are carrying
umbrellas and hot in coats. It is a benevolent jest. Baby laughs in the fields,
watching Dog run, watching grass get walked on. Later we go into town and buy a
new red kettle. The old model won’t boil water, so it has done itself out of a
job. Baby laughs at the giant tv in the electric shop, she has smeared biscuit
all over her face, as is customary for babies. I have been awake longer than
the sun has been in the sky. Concentration is wandering off. I am retracing my
steps after it. But now I can make coffee.
There is weather today, I do note it: take a few moments to reckon the size of a cloud (big) and the frequency of rain (sporadic.) Centre of my interest though is a stack of magazines. Not the fashion kind. This is martial arts research. I'm not even sure what it is I'm looking for, but intuition calls loud. A range of old adverts skew some amusement. Contact pants, for example. Pants are not trousers where I come from. They are underwear. Professional contact pants: improved smirk value. But why would a person be likely to purchase a grappling hook and a lock pick set? For specialists and hobbyists only, the blurb assures. Guidance on the pheromone spray that attracts women against their better judgement? I doubt it works any more proficiently than the mysterious potion that defines your muscles while you sleep. But, then: I wonder is some sprayed on this paper? What was my intuition thinking, making this ghastly shout… Tea break time. There's a lot of words...


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