A Year in the Three Bridge Kingdom

A breakfast of scrambled egg with basil and cherry tomatoes is taken while watching water traffic create duck scattering wakes. The sun fills Lisson Grove Moorings. I listen to the wood creak as the boats gently roll in the heat. It is my mother’s first visit canalside so we take the boat along the Regent. It is too languid a day for the exertion of locks so we push along without falling or climbing.

The route offers tunnels, waving children and a baby warthog. This would be enough adventure, but travelling with my mother turns it into a botanic expedition. From wild mallow to water hemlock, plants are named and lore passed on.

At dusk, the sun plays alchemist, turns stone to gold. I exhale. Let tension fall away with the last of the day. It has been a year in the Three Bridge Kingdom and my heart grows with each sunset and each dawn across the water. You know you have a home rich with love when you can invite others to share it.

Gothic Eye Strain

If I disregard the comments accusing me of being in the pay of SIS or a ‘shadow-stealing dealer of Obi’, my blog only gets the occasional complaint. As much as a writer should ignore criticism, I do listen to reader feedback. From the enigmatic Mr. Lomax with his grumbling over my overuse of the word ‘sodium’ to the Ruby Empresses and her complaints of me not having written a decent piece about cooking for an age. I even listen to Kid Atari and his protests about not having slipped in any obscure Bowie references for several months.

However, there are some complaints I just refuse to take seriously – even if they come from trusted sources. According to one Mr. Dove, the design of my blog causes ‘gothic eye strain’. If someone is staggering around an office, retinas imprinted with throbbing afterimages, I am not going to accept that English Dreaming, English Rain is to blame.