The sun ricochets into our bedroom this morning, bouncing all over us. The sky is split in two. Upper strata of a mid to light grey sinks down over a still pool of blue. I watch the slow cloudslide while poaching two eggs and brew coffee. Boy drops his dinner coins down the side of the sofa, and needs assistance to venture into a crevasse of dog hair, reminding me that at some point in my life I might need to do some housework. I wander outside to see the sky without a glass barrier and clear thoughts of sofa detritus before sitting down to enjoy breakfast. Boy leaves for school, striding the lane under the last stripe of blue. I observe the dark-dipped sky. Expectation says this is how today will look, grey-shaded, but the cloud doesn’t stop sinking down into the blue, leaving just a few bits bobbing in a late afternoon sunspot.
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...

Comments