Three Bears

Went go and get the fish. The stall would close soonish but I felt so fucking awful I wasn't sure I'd make it without a stop at the Misty Mountain along the way. The place was to say the least subdued, in fact more like asleep. The half dozen old men in there had had enough of the day already.

Ambiguously cheered (did I feel better or worse?) I plugged on, only to arrive at the stall a fraction of a second after a large Jamaican lady in strange garb and headphones for periodic dancing started shouting about the exact medical procedures of her grandchild's birth while demanding five filleted plaice and four filleted mackerel which, if you don't know, takes ages. Why does this always happen to me? All I got was 'I've been up for three days....she could feel it coming......but she just wouldn't open up!' about a zillion times until I began to feel quite nauseous and certainly pathological.

Dented but with cod and kippers I caught the bus back, and a nice asian lady actually offered me her seat. I thought, Christ I can't look that awful, but accepted anyway under the guise of looking very old indeed.

And this aging process is what leads me to lament so often, or at least re-adjust to, old times or old things in the space of this blog. As Scott said Hegel said "The owl of Minerva (wisdom) takes flight at dusk'.

Last night we realized the whole of my young life was conditioned by three bears; Winnie, Rupert (which was nearly going to be my name) and Paddington. No wonder we always visit bears in the zoo, watch bear programmes on the TV, that Julie looks a bit like a sun and moon bear, and I go and get the bloody fish.