The gardener as come and gone and I certainly do not feel any remorse that he removed the unwanted branches from my apple tree, tore out the unwanted daisies and dandelions and made my garden a garden again.
Sorry, but contrite is not really in my vocabulary. If I call Mr. Trump an idiot it is because he is an idiot and I have no guilty feelings about it.
The train through the village is now empty
There are no passengers, not even twenty
Where have they gone, not waiting at the station
They are watching through the window whilst living in isolation
Memories of going to town, enjoying all the shopping
Now they just have images of trains, not even stopping
One day this will be over, in the meanwhile they are winging
Wanting to travel the train again being pulled by its engine
Taking a portrait of me
Sitting in the car
with Mr. Swiss driving
Memories of far gone days
I now travel alone
And there are no longer any portraits
Mr. Swiss is waiting at home
Until I return
As the night draws in you make no plans. Switch on the TV and be victims to what they choose to bring. Since Mr. Swiss has been progressing in years, he prefers to go to bed earlier and I am left with a choice of programmes. I never used to bother so much and left it up to him with his Swiss TV political programmes, and German police series. BBC, the British programme, existed, but was out of bounds most of the time.
Now life has changed and I am usually left to my own devices from 9.00 p.m. meaning it is BBC until I retire. Actually Mr. Swiss has also now got an appetite of British TV and tends to watch from the beginning of the evening.
At the moment I am watching a repeat of “Dad’s Army” and my evening will finish with “Casualty” a hospital programme with the usual nurses and doctor actors. My tonights have really got exciting as the years go by.
“How dare he” thought Tabby. Roschti the feline next door having a wash outside in Tabby’s territory before her very eyes. This was not a dull moment for Tabby, but she kept him under observation.
A restaurant in a store, but just a minute – were are the customers. No noise of laughter, talking, cups and saucers rattling and perhaps a kid screaming for the cake he cannot have: empty chairs and tables.
Even dogs felt comfortable in the restaurant. Is this now a thing of the past? Has the restaurant now become a museum, showing how it used to be when humans were circulating without masks or plastic gloves? Or perhaps it is just material for a film or a best selling book, not the reality of the real world.
Today we are all having a big problem to find the difference between fiction and non-fiction.
I did it once in my life, I published a book that I wrote. Just a collection of short stories, most of which had already appeared on Internet on a web site.
It even had a table of contents. I did it all in self publishing and I still do not know why. I think I just wanted to have a book published somewhere. It was not a hit, did not get a Pulitzer Prize or even a mention in the local newspaper, but it existed even in Amazon for a while. Do not search for it now, because it is no longer there.
For me it just mattered that I did it.
Je gratte, donc je suis
In 2016, aged 48, I suffered a stroke. Now I'm coming through the other side.
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