Sunday, Smeg

Blood and Bottles

Stumbling down Woodhouse Lane, a way I never tread, before ten I almost got wrapped beneath the tires if a Porsche Carrera. The chucked bottle I rolled over nearly took me into the carriageway, but I stayed, picked it up, swore and deposited it in the bin alongside Walkabout.

Yes, it's Sunday morning! After a malignant Saturday evening, played out on the Leeds streets, I walk passed litter, shattered glass and blood, (which is trying to find a way out). All I can do is swear and then carry on.

***

The bus was late, because they are working on the new bypass up on Red Hall hill and the X99 has to detour through Shadwell, so I didn't get up to the allotment until after noon. Then after two more hours I drifted into Wetherby to continue reading the final section of the memoirs I am reading. Mother hadn't moved all day, by the looks of things, when I returned at six: she hadn't even gone to the Morrison's Petrol station to get some bread. It was a nice winter's day though. She's eighty next year: 2023, and it's finally showing. A new knee could change something, but I really doubt she'll return to the active person she once was?

***

Early on Sunday I vacuumed the flat, washed my bedding and cleaned the kitchen: the first time in 2022. Now I am preparing for an excellent two weeks prior to heading off for a bit. Glenn and I are flying to southern Spain: Andalusia for around 9 days over my 50th birthday. I don't like to leave Lola to be walked by Phil, as it's only a walk she gets and little adventure, but I'll make sure she gets a Biggie on the final Friday of January.