April, Come She Will

My brief trip to the pub yesterday evening turned into an epic and monumental night, populated by faces old and new. It was the kind of outing where everyone who's anyone somehow manages to converge on the same place all at once; a bit like that festival in India where loads of folk go to the Ganges, except with the fine Yorkshire House tavern in place of the river, and with spiritual enlightenment coming in the form of ten pints of ale and a lot of loud punk rock.

It goes without saying that my head's been a bit sore today as a result, but I still managed to get out this evening after the football came to its slightly woeful conclusion. The trees are blooming on the streets, so here's a fine specimen up in Golgotha.

And why not some Simon & Garfunkel?

April, come she will
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain;
May, she will stay,
Resting in my arms again

June, she'll change her tune,
In restless walks she'll prowl the night;
July, she will fly
And give no warning to her flight.

August, die she must,
The autumn winds blow chilly and cold;
September I'll remember.
A love once new has now grown old.