Slap bang in the middle of that lot:
My daughter Millie: “Can I have an ice cream?”
My wife Jen: “I need a wee.”
From my poetry blog.
Dog Days pockets of dereliction the dog days of July hanks of grass and shaggy-maned stalks who can deny the sapping sun at its highest point lording over our genuflecting straw gods in the square in the shade of a spreading elm the fatigue of noon-day workers ©AndrewJamesMurray
I travelled into Manchester on a warm and stuffy bus, the heat only adding to my lethargy. I’d had only four hours sleep due to the late arrival of the student due to stay with us. (Don’t ask. No really- don’t ask! My WordPress word count couldn’t take it.)
After delivering him safely to the academy I called for a quick early lunch at the food court in the Arndale Centre. Sporting different stalls offering food from many different countries, I opted for a halloumi pitta from Zorba’s.
Don’t worry this isn’t a food post, I’m not that kind of blogger.
I took a table and began to eat while reading the book I was currently in the middle of, maybe not a good idea whilst making a mess of myself with yoghurt sauce. A voice reached me from a neighbouring table: “Do you like Greek writers?”
I looked across to him whilst frantically dabbing at my chin with a napkin. He did indeed look Greek, but I don’t think he was one of Zorba’s workers. Perhaps an expat with a craving for home cooking.
Emboldened by the name of the food stall, I replied “I’ve read most things by Nikos Kazantzakis.”
“He is Cretan.”
I conceded that he was, and that I’d actually seen the author’s grave in Heraklion.
“Crete is not Greece,” my neighbour said firmly. And then he glanced down at my plastic tray. “And halloumi is not meat.”
You had to hand it to the guy, he certainly knew his stuff. Again I conceded the point, and briefly considered asking him for both author recommendations and favoured meat dishes but decided to cut and run. For no doubt English would not be Greek and my wife’s cooking would not be his Mother’s.
I packed both my book and lunch into my backpack and said a hasty goodbye, bus to catch and all that, making my escape through the adjacent indoor fish market. As usual with the fish market it is your sense of smell that registers before your sense of sight, but then Conga eels, live mussels and all types of fish parts catch your eye, including, at the end of the display, a sign for Cod Flaps.
Cod flaps? What part of a fish could that be?
From my poetry blog.
Ocean With an ardent longing, sending her mating call over corpulent dune to my sand-sprinkled raptures, wildly adoring her untameable passion but knowing my place; walking these ravaged islands, carrying the frantic coupling in my bedchamber, alone, tasting the salty spume still, her lingering kisses an invitation to slip beneath her surface, sighing. ©AndrewJamesMurray
It’s been officially declared as the driest June in the history of mankind.