although my olives are less green and my hands are more purple.
although my olives are less green and my hands are more purple.
“At dusk he came forth regally, and stood in the street before the Gates of Wonder. And from his left arm, where his hand once was, grew a fine tree. And to the tree flocked birds of every colour, courting upon his branches and singing from his leaves.”
said George Bush to Mr Squirrel.

“We have renewed and revived the prospect for success”.
Mr Squirrel was very pleased indeed to hear that, and so were all the plastic fruits of the forest.
- which has been digitized by Google – and I was intrigued to discover, in Chapter 7, that Alderman Mechi considered it a fact that:

which makes sense, I guess, in the context of what he’s already said about mastication, dry chaff, and a horse’s solid something-or-other.
4 weeks, tending frogs and pumpkins. We hope.
Hatred has fallen from him,
And desire, hypocrisy and pride.
He wants nothing from this world
And nothing from the next.
He is free.
We are going away.
We will be there all September. Harvesting, pottering and pruning (where appropriate). I may try and build a kiln.
We will be eating healthily, of course.
The poppies will not be in flower, sadly.
But there may well be figs.
somewhere around here.
Near the frog treat maggot bag.
That picture I did this morning with the barrel is so profoundly bleak and unsettling (it reminds me of one of those Czechoslovakian cartoons they’d occasionally put on around tea-time on BBC2) that I decided to depict something a bit more upbeat.
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