the thick head has it`s origin in last nights activities, hops and malt. Two litres, too much. But it was a nice conversation.
Sleep on until eight thirty, the wife offers coffee, oh fantastic.
Deep brown brew, brown being a colour beyond black. But the one is politics, and the other is drink, the other is drink.
Now stop the mind wandering, see what is to be done.
Finish the coffee get another.
The son is on the computer, three friends talking to each other online, all playing the same construction game. A sandpit.
The wife leaves the house to go shopping,
There is no news. All seems designed to confuse.
The hops outside the window have turned yellow. They are there for decoration only, not for harvest. They are strung on wires, they will grow anew next year. Some are still green, others have turned yellow.
One plant has died.
The son has to go to singing lessons. Remind him that he needs to get ready. His room is heated by the air from the computer, an old machine with a noisy fan. Knock on the door and enter the room. Six eyes turn to look, two in reality and four through the little camera on the machine.
He leaves the machine working away, with his friends playing still, gets dressed, and two slices of bread and butter in hand runs off to the singing group.
He leaves his friends playing on his computer, it is the server after all. Hear their chatter as they play, oblivious to and uncaring of the grown up miles away listening in. They are private, those listening will hardly understand the real rules regulating their game.
And now the cat commences to make noises.
Of boredom, perhaps.
Maybe it is in heat.
Now that the head is better, recharge the bialetti for another fresh dose of morning brew, hear a crow outside, and consider the days work.
Sleep on until eight thirty, the wife offers coffee, oh fantastic.
Deep brown brew, brown being a colour beyond black. But the one is politics, and the other is drink, the other is drink.
Now stop the mind wandering, see what is to be done.
Finish the coffee get another.
The son is on the computer, three friends talking to each other online, all playing the same construction game. A sandpit.
The wife leaves the house to go shopping,
There is no news. All seems designed to confuse.
The hops outside the window have turned yellow. They are there for decoration only, not for harvest. They are strung on wires, they will grow anew next year. Some are still green, others have turned yellow.
One plant has died.
The son has to go to singing lessons. Remind him that he needs to get ready. His room is heated by the air from the computer, an old machine with a noisy fan. Knock on the door and enter the room. Six eyes turn to look, two in reality and four through the little camera on the machine.
He leaves the machine working away, with his friends playing still, gets dressed, and two slices of bread and butter in hand runs off to the singing group.
He leaves his friends playing on his computer, it is the server after all. Hear their chatter as they play, oblivious to and uncaring of the grown up miles away listening in. They are private, those listening will hardly understand the real rules regulating their game.
And now the cat commences to make noises.
Of boredom, perhaps.
Maybe it is in heat.
Now that the head is better, recharge the bialetti for another fresh dose of morning brew, hear a crow outside, and consider the days work.
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