An irregular, irreverent, post-modern account of the surreal, the ordinary, and the bizarre happenings on and around the Felia lavender farm in Crete

Tuesday, March 07, 2006


Squint eyed sleep eyed Humphrey was waked and wondered why laying down and a list to the jangly bangly of the windchimers beyond and below clanking mad. The wind it is he thunk and let go a mighty fart in opposition into the bedcovers turning as he did upon his side and sniffing deeply to clear his nasals. The comfy cozy snuggly bedsheets hugged him tighter and the pillow bolster snuggled to his earwicks close and safe warm and woozy. Dark it was and wet outside he bethought himself. Caaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrackkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk the thunder flaaaaaaaaash the lightning gashed the skies throwing shadows into the dark wombroom. Smell of bodies two dark and safe sweet and human too. No rest for the wicked or earwickered though and Humph harrumphed heself out from the duvet sheets and pillows off to where the cold tiles froze his tootsies and the rain was alashing at the fenestre like a frenzied thing lash lash lash and so he slashed to the lashing emptying a bladder full of night accumulated micturate into the purewhitesurewhite porcelain it rushed past a prostate the size of a solomonic pomegranate steaming and stinking splashing and plashing. Relieved and shivering in the chill Humph glanced windowards once more and shook his goodbyes to the bowl flushing on his way as he liberally applied some vaseline to his lips parched after a dry night of snoring his blind dreams out to the world. Past the sink that cried to him to clean heself he reengaged the womblike space where they slept and digging under the net regained his place in only lightly chilled and soiled sheets. Eight of the clock and no time for a man of leisure and repose to be about on a day so foul and short of promise a day so wet and windy. On another thunderclap he shimmies down into the covers and huddlecudlles in the envelope of warmth he finds shuddering off the shivers of the bathroom and resuming his half waking sleeping dozemode. Spooning in behind his missus he thinks himself a sleep with the mantra whenamansretiredandthedyisshitetheresnoneedforhimtoshiftuntilhewillsit. And the warmdry reverie of night comes over him like waves of comfort pulling him back under the tide of sleepdrowse as he hears the twins arise and getting about below.

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