Daybreak, another new day, the mist on the meadow has drifted away… The sun’s in the sky so blue, At daybreak I daydream of you…
This, Dear Reader, is the great wilderness that forms the grounds of the Underground Lair. One captured it, in all it’s fecund fabulousness, v. v. early in the morning of another hot summer’s day…
‘Have you got any walking boots?’ came the absurd enquiry from the Masterful Gentleman…
One isn’t exactly certain what ‘walking boots’ actually are, but One is fairly sure One doesn’t have any.
One gazed down at One’s strappy, diamante, T-bar, open-toed confections, that revealed perfectly manicured and scarlet painted toes.
ONE ASKS YOU, DEAR READER: DO I LOOK LIKE A GIRL WHO OWNS WALKING BOOTS?
‘I want to take you, up on the Quantocks,’ persisted the MG
And indeed, he did. Sharing with One, the wild, still spaces that speak to the desolate corner of his soul that yearns for the beauty of an empty space on earth.
One is much better able to commune with such spaces by lying on a blankie regarding the clouds scudding by and having a bit of a kip…
Any road up, off we pootled to Samuel Taylor Coleridge's cottage, whereupon we were met with a spinster of the parish who seemed utterly determined to persuade the MG to move, immediately, into the village and partake of companionable strolls with her to the Post Office. One nipped that in the bud, put the pulsating pensioner in her place and removed the MG forthwith by placing a proprietary, vice-like grip upon his shirt and leading him away… He is, after all, the play-thing of One and is not to put up for grabs for many a moon – if EVER!
It would appear that ST Coleridge was a bit of a selfish cove: biffing off on long strolls with Wordsworth who probably left that irritating sister of his, Dorothy, mooning about the place, getting under poor old Sara Coleridge’s feet.
‘Now look ‘ere Sam,’ Sarah would cry, ‘Bert next door’s out all day and he comes back with a couple of rabbits and a pheasant for tea. What do you expect me to do with a poem about a sodding Nightingale, eh? And that bloody Dorothy’s about as useful as a chocolate fire-guard in the kitchen!’
Any road up, it all goes to explain to One why there aren’t many women Inventors/Scientists/Poets/great Artists etc.
THEY WERE ALL TOO FLAMIN’ BUSY SORTING OUT COLERIDGES SOCK DRAWER AND GETTING THE TEA