Fuck. Excuse the French but I have done it again, left my gloves behind. Well, that’s I would like you to think, I have to confess that I don’t actually have any.
It’s the season and they are bursting, beautiful, firm and glossy, scattered sporadically across the morning’s dewy grass. From their hostile homes, freedom beacons, coerced freedom. Sticks are futile, one maybe two, your only option is to climb.
Shoes off. Socks off. The moist grass underfoot startles then refreshes; a beautiful day is commencing as the sun invades the haze. Greenwich is one of London’s premium vantage points, the views beautiful, even more so from the trees top.
Silence pervades through which wind rustles leaves and dog walkers coo and dog walkers woo as their little dogs poo.
Hands and feet firmly positioned, sway left, then right, the carpet bombing begins, sweet sweet cluster bombs. Bottom branch, swing down, tip toe. Round up squirrel like, clear off. I have beat the Chinese to it this year.