Grooooan. Serious dose of Sunday head, facilitated by alcoholic misbehaviour on Friday. Lately, though, C and I seem to be finding a routine where we both end up doing as little as possible over the weekend. That, tied into the poor excuse of a summer, means the garden looks like a bombsite, and I’m never in the mood to do anything about it. Still, the spuds and onions coming out of it are tasty, so I shouldn’t gripe too much.
Sunday afternoon. Soft rain outside. Up to my eyeballs in tea. Traffic’s Mr Fantasy on the stereo. It’s gonna have to be the Small Faces next. Lazy English psychedelia for a lazy English day.
EXCUSES AND HALF TRUTHS 