A rebel without a clue.

Ending my day out, morning stroll/meander, via Temple Works, the Hol Beck and Water Lane feeling a little like I've caught a cold (not COVID!!!)and my feet bring me to the same Sainsbury's Local on Whitehall Road - where I had gone for Ibuprofen and a liquid after the second corona virus vaccination on the 2nd of August. After I had walked back to town from Elland Road Vaccination Centre but before I  spent the remainder of the day in the grip of hot cold fever and chattery teeth. The new pressed coconut drink made by Vitacoco is a great source of what my body needs to delay the inevitable onset of a winter cold. At the moment it's really easy to overlook the statistics of the prevalence of colds and flu, and other gremlins, during this media driven 'drivel', which instills just enough fear into an already highly strung and anxious populous, during the winter months? Is this Omnicron I see before me? Is it a dagger to plunge into my exposed neck like the...

Yesterday I pushed myself for seventeen plus miles, between Wetherby and Otley - the first visit in a long time - to connect with Glenn, who I had not seen more than twice since the summer. On Friday I worked on the allotment with Andy after walking merry legs (Lola) up around Wetherby Race Course and along Syke House Lane, but had a little too many Belgian "Christmas" beers. Which means very strong in Abv. and possibly unnecessary in all respects to a good night's sleep when they drive you to frikandellen frenzy or, in my case, a huge roast chicken dinner followed by numerous After Eight mints? Why I didn't eat prior to the Belgian 'trap pissed' event at Wetherby Brew Co. is a question I often ponder as I lay awake around 2am with insomnia brought on by simple carbohydrates running through my system. The knock on effect of the binge of drinking and eating is feeling shite to attempt to gather myself for the difficult slog through churned up tracks and sodden ...

Yawn Upon another lie and deception filled morn Moan When the deceivers dodge devilishly Skip Around reality into a trough Deep Where only traitors gobble scraps Disguised; Clothed, but fooling me not. Trotters Fit barely into Number Ten's Sty Slobbering chops grinning Terribly And eyes glimmer and scheme.

To begin again. So many attempts to pick up, step out, move on. But I have to linger a while longer: we're in the grip of Omnicron, boosters, Storm Barra, PCR 48 hour tests and my mother is struggling. All my life she's been a constant buzz of activities, but now, as she approaches 80, things are falling apart. It's inevitable; I know, but I'd hidden it telling myself she'll outlive her mother. Slowly, but surely, all that comes along dissolves; washed away with the persistent rain this Wednesday morning: life fades out like a bleached stain on the fabric of existence and we become little more than the gale blown blankness on a ragged and torn sheet. She stirs above, slowly, and I wonder if she'll moan or celebrate the morning? The sun is yet to pay us any attention as the leaves drift along the street to cling in the difficult places before they too wither into dust: it's 6:40 on the 8th December 2021...

I have been searching for meaning in my life for as long as I could consider what life could possibly be for. The conclusion I perpetually come to is that there isn't any. This makes me very very depressed and disappointed. But I must be wrong and must be missing something because a great many people do appear to have a great deal of meaning in their lives; and leave so many smiles in their passing. As I sit quietly by, early on the Monday morning, it's impossible not to listen to the passing conversations between the various bird species: crows in the tall sycamore trees, pigeons on the rooftops and a variety of songbirds perched around the hedges, shrubs and smaller trees and in the background I hear the rumble of traffic on the A1(M), but what am I listening for? Is it the answer to my search for meaning? It's 5:30am and I'm stood waiting the the same kettle to boil to fill the same cafeteria before I sit at the back patio doors and linger over the same cup of coffee...

Six days walking and several days suffering a hangover... Boring. I'm bored of me. Truly I must break the cycle. When I'm in the moment of walking there is nothing to say. It's only when I'm hungover or pissed off about something or someone that I have a word to say. I'm utterly contemptible. S unday morning in Pollença, 3rd October. To a bustling Roman era market town escaping Palma on the first bus 301 at eight. BOC Hostel wasn't a party place (they said), but, it being Saturday evening, the younger others in room 3G were out until around 3. Then, at around 4, some heavy bass began kicking out in the park behind the Hostel. It didn't last long, and I drifted back to sleep until after six, when I abluted and went searching everywhere for coffee on a Sunday morning. Discovering a microbrewery next door to the hostel didn't help either - Adalt which means attic or above or something. It took me a long time to discover a café and recover some p...

A journey to the end of the novel Or a journey to the end of the night? When does this conveyer belt become comprehensible? I distrust everything I despise everyone As I trickle over Towards extinction And excursion It's Domingo And I'm tired And appalled.