Affirming sun splashes on every bared surface. Down by
the river, Mr and me are climbing trees. The river runs lower than we've ever
seen, the water clear enough to show where the rocks are pointed, where the mud
slides to depths. Mesmerised, one foot slides astride a trunk, lands one leg in
a bramble tangle. No harm done: if anything, more laughter appears. Okay, maybe
today is not the day for shimmying out on the branch that overhangs those incisive
boulders. But still, foot scuffs in the moss of the thick trunked fallen tree:
they are proof of this: I was here: I laughed.
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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