People who talk about themselves in the third person are, to a man, woman or child, utter cocks, and Bristle is no exception. However, I’ve had a great week, so what do I care? Been chillin’ in Wilts at the crib of my lovely lady friend’s rents, helping her get ready for Glarstow, squeezing in a night down the Thali and a mini-Easton pub crawl, and generally enjoying the first full fruits of the summer, because we are young and vibrant and all that. Even the whole threatening to slap that uncle’s arse thing couldn’t dampen things. Alles ist gut!
So anyway, she’s packed of to Pilton, the flatmate too, and I’ve got a few days housework to catch up on as well as a week of moggysitting, which takes me down south of the river – and so it is that I managed to grab a snap of that graffiti on the footbridge over the New Cut leading to Dean Lane. Poetry emotion.