Blood Scent

The street was bathed in pale light from the dipping sun as I slipped out through the cemetery gates. I left the ghosts of fusiliers and Belgian sailors for the ghosts of Albert Road.

It has been an eventful day so far. I have come to expect a few dog owners to ignore the legal notices about dogs on leads, but I was a little more surprised that a party leader, no stranger to legal briefs, would, without pause, choose not to uphold Human Rights Article 10 and let his own hounds lose, entirely at odds with his election platitudes about unifying my party. However, if I was to say that to Julian Assange at this time, I think I might get back a wry smile. 

Beyond the surprise, the no surprise really, the dismay and the rage, I entered a period of reflection. It was at this time that I recalled the words of an extraordinary Honduran teenage girl whose reaction to the brutal extrajudicial murder of her equally extraordinary and beloved mother, Berta Cáceres on 3 March, 2016.  

"My mother has not been killed. My mother has been planted and she is born and reborn and this, which they tried to put out today, this fire, that is the struggle of the people - The only thing they did was ignite it more because they tried to put out the fire with gasolene."

Laura, teenage daughter of Berta Cáceres.

https://www.wordsinthebucket.com/berta-caceres

Corona virum days - 1

I spent most of my time backing off from the advancing six foot not bothered youth with phone stuck between hunched shoulder and ear. The yellow and black diagonal tape markings on the floor were clear and respected by most of the night hawks. Either they meant nothing to him or respect and concern for others was a a concept for his evolutionary future, if he should make it that far. Having enquired of the kind assistant of the whereabouts of the shelf for rice, we established that Uncle Ben's smiling-faced marketing-ramped-priced sachets were the only option. I headed for the alcohol aisle for consolation. A bottle of 7.3% McEwans Champion Special edition and a 2017 Montepulciano D'Abruzzo would ease my disappointment. All was going well right up to my payment at the till. Spot on, I thought as I transacted my purchase with my first ever cashless payment card at the check out, impressed with the substantial new glass barrier in front of the smiling check out human. I was feeling good. As I turned to make my exit, the architect of doom was heading towards me ignoring all ante and in-play crisis norms. I instantly and understandably surmised that his Hello sweetheart greeting was not for me but for the gracious cashier now over my shoulder. My martial arts were somewhat rusty and I had foolishly left my Gletcher Parabellum under my pillow that very morning. My senses disoriented by nine days of glorious solitude I became the passive recipient of the advancing intrusion of this don't give a fuck geezer. And so my fate was sealed. I am presently attempting to fend off all manifestations of virulent assault with the rice substitute purchases while upgrading my skills with a re-watch of Enter The Dragon. Be like water, my friend.

To be continued ...