Pangs

Pang. Pang. Pang. Pang...
... goes the rain on the metal chair.

Pang.
... goes my heart, as I look at my 'September Place,' - my little table in the garden - where the previous two years I sat with my coffee and my books, reading, writing or studying. Away from my laptop, away from the telephone, away from the hum of the fridge (that's the noise not the smell). Occasionally stopping to look around, dead-head a rose, pick up some leaves, pull out a weed. Feeling un-encased, connected to something bigger, under a wide sky and blessed by blue.

Where is my September?

The whole of the South West tip of the UK is awash today.
I am inside with Chekhov, Dylan and Aunt Flo.

Dylan is a dog.

Aunt Flo is a euphemism.

Chekhov was misunderstood.

I think.

Someone said yesterday that I think too much.

I certainly think too much at 3am.