Tis a beautiful, sunny, late spring day in Wairarapa, New Zealand. After a turbulent spring of unpredictable weather, I suspect we are entering a period of typical summer Wairarapa fare with hot, dry climatic conditions.
The last day of November also marks our town's Christmas parade (arse). The main street is closed to the usual cacophony of traffic, and the town's folk are subject to a series of parade floats of varied construction and quality. In addition, there is a marching band followed by the town's dedicated and skilled Scottish piper fraternity. Tis a yearly fixture in our town. I rarely make the effort to attend; however, this year, my beloved granddaughter, Freja, is making a guest appearance on her father's company's float. Thus myself and Mrs S dutifully arrayed ourselves with assorted proles on the sidelines. Our wait was short, and the float of interest lumbered slowly unto view. Our flaxen-haired granddaughter made her appearance stage left, and all became bathed in her beatific pulchritude. Her radiant glow bestowed charmed grace upon those in attendance, even the fat smelly folk. Once she had departed, this vista, this arena, became dull and commonplace, thus heralding our departure. It was then I noticed that I had forgotten to take my medication. O, woe is me.....
My psychiatrist, the renowned and esteemed Prof. Mugumbo, has repeatably requested that I refrain from idealising about burning stuff. Also, my fixation on all things ferret is a grave hindrance to my future mental well-being. The Prof. may have a point.
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