Contemplating. Just a thought, you know. Not terribly serious but all the same… I mean, who the fuck wants to hang around much longer in the kind of world we have managed to cook up for ourselves, what with the whingeing genocidal maniacs and the psychotic infants in power and the premier league idiots telling one that one’s bodily ailments are all one’s own fault (for failing to pray to baby Jesus or comply with CBT and so on)? Really. Of course the beasties and the flowers totally disagree and still endorse and press for the usual bloody-minded resistance which, they claim, is NOT futile. Oh, well. We’ ll see… Weekend coming up. Have a splendiferous one.

Sunny Dino. Here be a gift wot is not Greek and it’s useful and dead cute into the bargain. The young Dino is very impressed and the flowers & ferns well chuffed. Happy days!

Moonlight Flowers. Who says I can’t do flowers? (Or flae’hs, as Boob-Boom calls them.) Here be proof.

Green City. 78. It’s scary because it sodding is, it being so close to 80 (which is severely scary). It’s interesting for reasons I won’t bore you with. It’s no longer “late middle age”, or “elderly”, or, as the Spanish say “un poquito mayor” (a little bit senior). No. It’s fucking old, like in seriously old. However, and possibly the only good factor of this generally dreary equation, it’s not utterly devoid of a certain je ne sais quoi and even a discreet charm. Also, I have outlived Gaius Octavius, as he was before he mutated into Augustus, by three whole years. So there! (All said & done, I’ve had worse birthdays.)