CHABbing... again

Writing about the past is a strange thing, it pours out of you like a burst water main. And just like that main it is wasteful and causes damage. See so much of the past has been tucked away in neat little boxes marked do not disturb. It is done and forgotten and the mind doesn’t discriminate... it puts away everything; the good, the bad and the ugly.

Now He thinks the boxes should be unpacked. He doesn’t realise that with all the good stuff comes the bad. All the dead, the destroyed and the lost... they chase you round in your mind. Meh. This grey weather is killing one on the inside. By about two hours into a shift one asked a co-worker how she felt about assisted suicide. She giggled in a nervous manner, making one wonder if perhaps she was a poor choice.

This rain has been continual now for days. Everything is wet... even the lungs and the ears feel waterlogged, and we have been promised at least another few days of it. The ground is so wet trees are laying down, having lost their hold in the soil. And despite the protestations of the roofing guy that it is fixed, the roof is leaking with a steady drip, drip, drip sound.

Frankly one feels a little gypped. All the travel posters promise you sand, sun, clear blue waters, palms waving in a gentle breeze and sun. Did one mention sun? Lots of the bloody stuff. And where is it? Off visiting some relative... it didn’t even put in for annual leave.

Mind you all the pictures of Holland’s tulip fields are sunny too and one is damned sure some little man spent days waiting for that shot L