The End of the Way. Pt.4.

Yep, even in France on a Monday mornings, commuters are running to catch buses or trams and getting their heels sheared off. Quinconces is the hub for a café and croissant and mass transits.

With a start I awoke after a worriesome night; there was a gargantum effort between the heat, the sleeping bag, my body and that fizzingly fork tongued mozzie. Every time I heard it's high frequency humming the battle to end it's existence began in earnest: but the cunning insect had seen this coming and had an escape car ready to extract it from the situation. Hearing is not the same as seeing. Blood sucking git!

Magnum Kisses! It's an Ice Cream Choc Ice for the 21st century. If any girls kisses me and she tastes of cream she'll be straight to a dental hygienest. Bullshitting commercial Crap.

Before I dismiss Bordeaux in this soul searching eye there is the small matter of the Garonne. All the rivers I've been caught fighting in France come to here and it is a river dreams are built on. Vast and distractingly beautiful. Another time will come when I will be here for the Grand Cru and sweet love from a thousand eyes glimmering on the surface of life. Today is the 1st July and must be a hot one? The cars swarm passed heading north and south as my passage points west. Hearts and bank balances have been broken along the Garonne. Oh just because of the simplicity of implicitly true expressions of wine or love or both; Monday morning has no blues for me to be here; 'Yellow is the colour of my sweet heart's hair in the morning, when we rise'.

Louis Armstrong blows this morning as his doppelganger prepares a stack of chairs, 12 by 4 deep in the shade of the Opera House. Place de Comedie and pompous France dressers can't help laughing at the size of their wads. Take 99% of the people into the sea forever the world will resound to the rhythms beating back again, but the pain and Curtelin figue violette confiture extra makes amends for the foul dark eyed fools. Fugue away a while Louis strong-in-the-arm. Fini and en pay for final petit dejourner. Off we go; mentioning to a la Louis Armstrong his visual comparisons, paid for that Regently done breakfast and depart numero un; trumpetting the hour neuf. The flame of positivity spreads from my booted and baby powdered feet to my mozzie bitten exterior and to a glisandre of pride for my achievements. Thank you one and all who partook in a verily singular affair.

Canelés is the petit gateaux claimed to be artisan in bordeaux but they're everywhere. Distinctly common buns I would suggest.

The bigger the city the more I seem incapable of knowing where I left anything. My brain drains rapidly of absorbing and recalling membrane; a strange phenomenon.

As you hit an Airport all suggestions of fair trade simply vanish. Like a mirage shimmering in a sea you think you'll be saved but find the ship is indeed a slaver bound for arabia. Why doesn't the government break up this closed shop? I bought a bottle of water prior to the gates forgetting it is forbidden because the USA said so. I paid €2.25 for a litre of Vittel to have this vital prerequisite taken off my person. What fear is there. If the flight we're on explodes mid air what notions would I have that i could blame anyone for this control of my freedom/liberty. The world is quite lost to this uniformed and inflexible ideology of fear and resentment of anything slightly suggestive of doom. Check out Duty-Free and suggest that a good without duty isn't necessarily cheaper than a duty bound item. Usually the goods sold are premium products anyhow; recognised brands bound to attract the proud and the vain. I blow Issy M'Aki all over me without fear of remanstrances as I paid for that in extortions between airport and no man's land.

Finally we hit the perimeter before the stars, terrain and deep blue seas. I spoke after seeing a glimsed owl on left chest suggesting Yorkshire folks kindly natured heading back north north to the Steel city; wife Blades husband Owls -sounds like a house built on the old clique of opposites attracting in a leather on leather battle; usually Saturdays. Without feeling any resistance I asked them if they're going my way could I put my thumbs out before pressing in for luck. What ever is decided between them, between early afternoon Bordeaux and one o'clock Birmingham, is the flow. Kimberworth-y? There is no urgency for me. Why did I suddenly get the urge to be home instantly? It's all part of the plan. Husband is quite correct. An hour to pay more for my passage is quite irrelevant to the passage of time. That was my disappearing self raising a hand to grapple my mind apart.

The next way is beckoning me already, the South Yorkshire couple want to return home to see their grand kids and I needed reminding by that man not to fall back into the tide. Wishing him luck I picked up my belongings and fought to belong elsewhere.