~ sublime prismatic skin

The rain god Tlaloc disgorged his bounty right on time. Every child got in a few solid thwacks before he gave up its guts. Good guts, too. Save, perhaps, the Asian ‘corn-flavoured’ lollies, many of which were instantly spat out …

A five year old’s party is usually a brief affair, but this one stretched through a long languid afternoon. The reptile handlers were wonderful and so were their reptiles. Turtles, lizards, frogs - pythons slithering over every second guest. Beautiful creatures – including the rainbow serpent of legend with its sublime prismatic skin. One kid even scored some sheddings...

Lemon, whom I have mentioned before – darkly - resembled an eldritch Bianca Jagger, pontificating on some dreadful subject, as Aleister Crowley’s reincarnation writhed on her upper body - as her cuckoo crazy daughter, Cumquat, menaced beast and man alike with a plastic ‘Robot Arm’

[Let me give the handlers a plug – Animal Tracks]

Joy, Polly’s great grandmother of 85 years, was far from at ease with these creatures, wouldn’t let the handlers near her, not even with a small tree froglet. She’s of a reptile-loathing generation which remembers a time when snakes were a far more common and deadly menace than today.


The kids, however, had no trouble – at one point about ten of them were lined up, holding a huge serpent stretched out end to end … a kind of mosh-diving image… weird for the snake, I think…

People have changed in their attitude to snakes. At least in the cities. A snake’s dark symbolism – derived from its alien form and its deadliness – draws the imagination more so than ever, but its roots are long-forgotten.

I wonder what the crèche-mothers thought of it all? There were lots of adults, many friends of ours, all of a Bohemian ilk - but also many local suburban parents. I am afraid of being judged here, but I wonder if I’m guilty of the same crime … As a nutjob living in the middle suburbs, I worry about becoming a well-known eccentric, or warlock, or psychokiller in their imaginations… not for my sake, of course, but for Polly’s … dreadful pressure to appear normal … must resist…

It was a lovely party, everyone had fun, I think, and I am just being paranoid.

Afterwards, Lemon shared an idea she’d had, ‘for a story or film, or whatever…”. A virus plagues the Earth. All are killed, but those given immunity by Hep C. Interesting scenario. Perhaps Lemon & I could become rulers of this tired, foggy-headed world. [‘Don’t you dare steal it,” says Lemon – and, trust me, you don’t want this dangerous little number on your case]

Today, I prepare for my long-awaited trip to Queensland.

~ something wicked this way comes...

~ Drive Me To The Dogs

My wife has returned from a bunker in Preston describing her experience as 'horrible'. The unisexual fortress was full of war victims with sour lips, fused minds and twisted bodies, many of them driven to madness by the depredations of the Spores. She described the sharp smell of antiseptic, and the stress of suddenly finding herself living in close quarters with so many wandering, murmuring, twitching reminders of what the Spores can do to a person. During her time there, she barely left her cell, as her own condition was somewhat critical; she was frail, cadaverous. paranoid, in despair, and wholly unable to manage her life - and it was here that she decided that preventative medication was the only thing that would save her.

It is a pity, as Spasmo-Dromoran is a harsh drug that mimics many of the effects of the Spore-illness in order to counter them. Under its influence, the bones and teeth may crumble, the love of music may die, one may sleep for upwards of fourteen hours, and the manner of the soul may become infantile. During my own time on this drug, I produced reams of writing, of which very little was useable. It was indulgent and hopelessly naff - my internal editor seemed to have lost its critical faculties. I dare not tell you what became of my teeth.


My wife, however, has come home bubbling. She has resurrected the house from its squalor; she has upgraded the contents of Polly's lunch-boxes a hundredfold, and has already mustered the confidence to go have coffee with friends. The household aura has shifted from piss yellow to restful blue. In recent months, owing to her emaciation, she has been too embarrassed to take on work as a life model. [her primary money-making occupation], but already, thankfully, she is putting on weight.

I wonder how long this pleasant part of the cycle will last? What I dread are the moods which Spasmo-Dromoran can generate. The bad, irritable moods, which come just after lunch time each day. Jenny is the sweetest creature with a delightful nature, but Spasmo-Dromoran gives her an acid tongue that can strip the flesh from my bones. When that starts, the best thing she can do is have a nap.

But for the moment we are all seemingly well, though impoverished. Soon, perhaps even today, I will have to return to my book-selling on ebay, an activity that drives me to the dogs. I am building the ant-pinata for Polly's upcoming party. I am in the yard cultivating nuVanilla. I am reading The Swarm by Frank Schatzing. I am thinking about a snooze, though it's only eleven in the morning...