A piece of fluff, a solitary amalgamation of dust , left over, I suppose, after my book-clearing yesterday, scuttles across a table moved by a breath of air, so that I think for a moment it is an insect.
In a shady corner of the garden, the as-yet green fruit of lords-and-ladies or cuckoo pint cluster among broad, pointed leaves. They seem to be selling something sinister, or is it just the promise of autumn, when summer has hardly begun.
The man who owns the fish and chip shop up gets up from his table outside the pub and, on his way to the gents, says to his companions: "I'm going to hang my willy out".
1 comment:
Perhaps he was referring to his codpiece!
Post a Comment