:: The Last Swallow ::

So the rain more-or-less cleared up. And Mummy dear took me on a delightful tour of the lakes. I didn't manage to avoid all the tourist traps, but I was pleased to find a few places not overrun by beaming Japanese fervently photographing every tea-shop in Cumbria. The highlight for me was eerie Wastwater, deserted except for the odd outward-boundy type and glistening coolly in the half-cut sun. Eyebrows may be raised, but the trip has encouraged me to go fell-walking. Those gleefully awaiting photos of me in a fleece and stout boots may well be disappointed: I'm not planning to take a camera, and so simply there won't be any, so long as I manage to avoid the infamous Lakeland Paperazzi.

The baleful bank holiday passed without much event, although a rained off picnic at the behest of Miss Equus Caballus turned into a gin-fuelled funfest. The "morning"-after recovery was considerably aided by the BH showing of Breakfast at Tiffany's. I was shamed into confessing that I've never read the book, although I do have a soft spot for Truman Capote, particularly seeing his arresting portrait by Cartier-Bresson.

With the passing of the damp summer idyll, I suppose it's now time to brush off the creative cobwebs incurred during this period of mental aestivation. Er... actually that means I might write more often on this thing. My natural reaction might be to wake up and shout at the simpering bystanders, but I'm more likely to venture into to realms of creating new fonts or going to the cinema.

Failing that, I might parade around South London on a souped-up bicycle, or attempt to break the 30-mile wheelie record on an un-souped-up one.

The possibilities are endless...

Ta-ta!