In an effort to avoid all the hideous stuff which lies ahead I'm putting my chips on Cheese bringing me out of it all. Cheese dreams would be nice would I be able to sleep properly, which I can't at the moment. Too many things spinning round in my head, its like the Faraway Tree up there, pots and pans clattering around, washing up water sloshing about and strange supernatural woodland creatures making them selves know when I'd rather they didn't.

Rochelle, it's been a while. Selling my Mums house, having a best mate being diagnosed with a terrible shit of a disease and Mrs T being away in Australia have led to a certain mental malaise descending over the Count like a blanket of despair. But the only way out of it might be to try to write something pithy about this photo submitted by Roger Bultot; 100 words, a beginning, middle and end would be the way of the traditionalist, lets see what comes out in the following stream of consciousness.

Buying and selling a house for your mother is a fucking nightmare and my once clear greenhouse of a head probably looks a little like this at the moment, the flowers dead, weeds proliferating, smashed and shredded but still there; just needs some reglazing and a bit of a sweep up, which ironically is what my Mum thinks we need to do in order to clean her house ready for sale.

For those of you worried, concerned and irritated by my absence, or none of those, fear not; I return with tales you wouldn't believe and I am definitely NOT Shutting Down, there's been an awful lot going on recently and I have flirted with pulling the plug on this once jolly folly. But first let my pay tribute to my amazing friend, and I'll call her S, to preserve her anonymity.

Its not my photo, it is my opinion, but sadly this is where we are

Evening folks, first time doing Water, Water everywhere plenty of water here, but not everywhere, hope I haven't broken any rules. Soundtracked by Eno as I write.

I walked back to the facility with my overalls stained and greasy; well I had to look as if i'd been working. They're paying me the medium beans for this charade, so I may as well play the game. Fancy working for a government and just pretending since covid. Don't get me wrong, when the work is drip fed I'm on it like a pro, but when theres been a famine, the corporate stomach shrinks, and so by lunch time I've had enough.

One thing I'm learning is how far behind the British Public view are the politicians and the royal family. If it stinks like shit it probably and invariably is, shit. The lack of backbone of interviewees asked about what to do with a suspected abuser of women is stark. They built a moral castle to climb up to the garret and look out over the masses; we, sometime ago, used to look to our leaders and to a certain extent the royal family as we thought they'd know what to do.

Does anyone do this any more? I've not been concentrating. Slicing the light switch.

Another week of  bullshit, lies and deceit from the "powerful". At work we are asked to change our work culture by a lady who glistens permanently as though planning to Wade through the Treacherous Treacle Straits, covered in Goose Fat whilst not knowing a thing about lone working, having spent her time working in a close knit office where they may or may not all go out for spritzers, culturally redundant lager and cocktails on a Thursday and or Wednesday evening (Fridays are for crying into their fish suppers).

I don't comer from Israel or Gaza and only know what Ive read in the news and listened to on the airwaves... but... Trump is without doubt a cock with literally no scruples about how he is seen in the world, as a tangerine tyrant who incarcerates or sues or sacks  his opposition rather than debating with them; that way fascism lies.

Its been a while, I'm back; i've been stuck in a fug of hopelessness, but thank God Rochelle is holding this thing together, and with that I thought I'd have a bash again, get me tackle out and see what bites. Its 100 words, with some sort of narrative and a point to it (which I may struggle with) anyway, congrats to Roger Bultot for providing the shot we have to write around and lets get cracking.

The United Kingdom is no longer united it seems, flags on lamp posts and rumours of sleeping armies of fighting age rapists and criminals coming over on boats is all it takes to inflame the fires of fascism and all the time the politicians deny all knowledge of this rhetoric. But the biggest issue I'm seeing at the moment is the loveliness of ladybirds buzzing all over the place, landing on my neck and falling down my back; coming over here and taking our aphids (or something like that) this metaphor was never going to work and I'm not sure really if it ever would, this is more of a stream of consciousness in which I try to work things out as I go along and sooner or later the idea will…

A Hotel with a grand name does not necessarily attract a grand calibre of guest. Present company accepted of course. But theres a golf course and I brought my golf clubs to ease away the afternoon boredom of being sent to Daventry on a special work errand which bares non consequence to any thing in particular, but I must remember to properly check the website as there is also a pool and hot tub; regrettably I forgot my swimmers, maybe Daventry isn't ready for that just yet.

 How do I deal with the rampant bigotry, racism and mysogyny which seems to abound, or actually does abound around underground and overground in the nooks and crannies, now pubs and social green spaces of Britain? Well short of trusting your political party to make a difference you could explore magic, specifically black magic and wish that Nigel Farage was on the Epstein Plane sucking off Prince (!!) Andrew; he was the masseuse, come on A1 (as my Mum calls it, do your stuff) having said that coming on the A1 is a wank in a lay by up towards Darlington, my Mum would recoil in  

They're eating the swans and catching the carp, and you'd better watch out because they'll be after you next, those people who are doing that... supposedly. Plus don't take the paracetamol, or do, it's your choice; but don't come to me crying if your legs turn gangrenous. It makes one wonder if this  incident regarding the swans actually happened. It may have happened, unlikely because the Queen owns all the swans, or at least did until she passed away, now no one knows, so maybe they're free game.