There’s a nice thing. My walk to work (sounds like a 1930s soviet/1940s UK slogan – Walk to Work! – accompanied by picture of Stakhanovite male striding into picture) is becoming a theme of these posts. One of my two routes takes me across a pedestrian iron bridge that’s almost as wide as it’s long. Under the bridge flows the Avon. Now I was wondering at and through bath late last night, after the fireworks finished (though in my *crazy* life they never really stop – tch!), and I looked down at t’ rain on t’ river. It had a thick foam floating on it, presumably churned up from the weir upriver, and the rain was attacking it, making endlessly pockmarks on the rivers face, surrounded by islands of yellow scum. And I just looked at it, and stopped and stood there for ten minutes watching it. Something gets me about decay and decrepitude, rusted iron, and hollowed buildings, and, it seems, floating scum.

It was just one of those Amélie moments: Daniel aime la pluie sur des fleuves, le néon sur le macadam noir, le sentir des racines sous pied (Daniel likes rain on rivers, neon on black tarmac, the feel of roots underfoot.) Somthing holy, even for a heathen like me.

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GriddleOctopus

There are few harder things in life than introducing yourself, especially in print where mellifluous nuance can turn to indulgent wankery. So. I am definitely a 'writer'. You could also call me an 'artist'. I could probably put the words 'designer' and 'consultant' here too, but they feel crass.

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