Nov. ’92 Exhibition

     Well that’s another year gone blowing away in a flurry of leaves and tram tickets. They definitely don’t last as long as they used to. Probably  all this metryfication and stuff wot do it. I can remember when a year was like a feast, a party with lots of courses, and jolly uncles doing silly tricks, and tiddly aunts singing and laughing, and it just went on and on. Now, yer modern years, they’re like Macdonald’s muckburgers; you think you’ve got a decent meal, but two bites and its gone, and you’re looking for the next one.

     Still, its what you make of ‘em wot counts- ‘Quality of Life’ and that lot, and I’m grateful that mine’s dead good, in spite of an indifferent season with the holidaymakers staying away in droves. But are we downhearted? Are we buggery! As I said to the wife when I was emptying the rat traps for supper, recently, with a life like we’ve got, you can’t expect money as well. I don’t want money. It’s people like Anglican Water, Eastern Electrickery, Poll Tax, and British Telecom and such- they’re  the ones  obsessed with money- they’re the ones who keep rattling their tin cups at me.                                                                    
      So here I am, trying to earn a few sheckels in exchange for a few of these splinters of time  clutched from the sky and the marshes; then all being well, we’ll at least be able to see the year out with our Christmas feast- of magic and music and warmth and love.