Slowly the plans of mice and men Of ticking clock and striking Ben Some called Prince most called knave All born to time a slave Father Time watch me weep Tomorrow I lay my soul to sleep A six day week I will labour Turn the plough into sabre Harvest weeds, € for toil $ for ancient forest spoil Buy your sister £ for lb Sold my soul to the devil’s hound Bully cause the weak to cower Awesome flag display your power The righteous swear on the constitute Who cares for a child pro
Copenhagen Train Station, January 2016 I have always been unreasonably excited about train stations. My first memory, of a train station, was as a child, maybe five years old. We lived in Harlow, Essex, built after WWII to ease overcrowding in London and the surrounding areas due to the devastation caused by the bombing during the Blitz. The new style was “futuristic” which translated in to concrete, glass, and strange shapes which had no function other than to be err … futur
We live in Aarhus, Denmark, a small country of a thousand islands, and a bit of land attached to Germany. We have a Peugeot 208, a roof box and we have never been to Portugal. so we said … “let’s go on a road trip”. Other people said, “with a six month old baby, are you mental?” Let me introduce “we”. This is me, the author, a ruggedly handsome chap with a slight follicle imbalance but nevertheless a happy, intelligent, and a cracking sense of humour. This is my wife, Dea an
In the morning we say good morning to someone be it a spouse, a child or the shopkeeper. The most crushing existence I can imagine is having no one to talk to, no one to share anything with, no one to even say hello to. This is the reality of many older people, a life of quiet loneliness. As rich postmodern technologically savvy people we can substitute a real world with a virtual world. We turn on the radio or TV, we check Facebook, Twitter, newsfeed and emails. We go to
“Not all those who wander are lost” is a line from the poem All that is gold does not glitter, written by J. R. R. Tolkien and it has inspired many a tattoo. Except for me, I was wondering why I was wandering and it was because I was lost. I was lost in France but not like the song, I was lost in France and not in love, I was one ticked off lad with a stupidly over packed backpack and seriously ticked off, fed, angry, lonely, tired, sore and I wanted to give up and go home.
When I was three years old my mum had to lock the door to stop me escaping into the front garden and out the gate. When I was four, she had to double lock it and tie the downstairs windows shut. Apparently, I would unclip the latch and clamber out the small window. Why? Well just 100m away, lay an abandoned chalk quarry turned into adventure playground. There was a ‘giant slide of death’ and copses of trees and bushes, tunnels through spiky thorn hedges, itchy powder berr