A frosty morning at home in Middle England.
Morning reading, and down to the garden shed on this crisp, beautiful day…
… before moving into the Cellar…
The future is moving closer to the present, as if they were actually apart, that is.
E-mails to the Crimson Brethren. I can just about stay on top of my affairs providing I don’t pick up a guitar, even with honest, reliable management. Were the manager to be a worm-that-crawls-the-earth-in-human-form (noting that worms reciprocally-contribute to their environment while Mr. Worm-Manager is parasitic), a managed-guitarist who picks up guitar every day, plays and practises for extended periods, is an ideal candidate for sucking-and-plucking upon.
It took forty-nine years to reach the present position, and here we are. Hooray! for David Singleton. Hooray! for the Beast Of Crim. Hooray! for the New World, being born anew every day.
Now, back to the Cellar.