Adventure Rocket Ship

The last few days have been something of a voyage. As if the (what I assume to be) Noro bugs stripped back the layers of experience plastered to the walls of my digestive system like wonky tree-rings and deposited me in the headspace of a sickly eight-year-old huddled under a blanket in dad's big chair in the kitchen, waiting for my four-hourly shot glass of water.

Then, I would dream (or probably hallucinate. It's hard to tell when you're eight and Operation Julie has yet to start.) about knobbly bottles of Lucozade and the promise of egg and chips when I was successfully keeping in water. Now, as mentioned, I hallucinated the GWR timetable and had to make do with a tin of R Whites lemonade for breakfast on Tuesday.

Since it seemed obvious I should now engage in a form of conceptual/gustatory time-travel, I have been thriving on bacon sarnies, ramen, marmite-and-stuff sarnies, tea and Irn Bru. I am in no particular hurry to move forward to the grub-90s, where there is sushi, and anything further afield feels exactly as relevant as Jay Rayner writing about shinning to the top of a palm tree in Eastbourne where the staff perform a vegetarian 'gastro' 'pub' by shying the ingredients of as-yet-unnamed courses from the tree opposite.

I have mostly been listening to Icelandic psych/space rock, Finnish tiki-core and surf-punk from Calgary. I would have liked to have posted more this month.

It seems I'm quite good at miniature golf. There's a trophy to prove it and everything.

It'll be tasselled loafers next, just you wait.

"Swift tincture at the nineteenth, old chap?"
"Don't mind if I do."