As I’m typing this, it’s 6.41am. I’ve been up since around half three. I’ve already woken up my mrs. with my ungainly bumbling around so I thought I’d come downstairs and type some random shite up, on the pretext of it actually being profound observations about the world we live in and life in general.
It’s getting a bit light now. I often see this pre-dawn light as I’m prone to long nights arguing with bearded philosophers about logical positivism. Not really – I’m mostly disussing boobies with Daz. Sometimes, yes, he does have a beard.
The sky is now a kind of gorgeous blue, fading from the purple-y night like a blob of potassium permanganate on a school shirt. It’s actually the colour of this text. Which is hexadecimal 4557CD, in case you’re a curious web designer or base-16-loving mathematician. (I resent having to mis-spell the word colour in order to colour the preceding text but I guess that’s extremely petty regionalism on my part. Could be worse, my native tongue could be Xhosa or Cantonese. Then I’d have some real grounds for bitching about web-based cultural imperialism.)
Next door’s cat has just wandered by. He’s quite lovely and is now too old to trouble the local wildlife. He had a sniff at my wife’s herbs growing on the patio and then carried on with his morning constitutional. Probably got a lot of places he has to piss, as have we all.
The sky’s now far more multi-shaded, yellowish near the horizon going to a kind of greyish blue at the top, the blue of those free-range eggs you can get. Yes, blue eggs. They’re very tasty. The yolks are bright green.
It’s now 7.11 so I’ve been typing this rambling crap for half an hour. Surely my ability to witter on endlessly, making trite observations and recording the un-surprising and savagely mundane virtually guarantees me a job at a glossy Sunday magazine? I’d have to pose for the pic they put at the top of the column, perhaps wearing a bowtie and looking unbearably smug and middle class. I could do that, gizza job! (note cunning use of thirty/fortysomething cultural reference, essential in middle class comfort writing). The only problem is that I don’t have any kids yet and I haven’t been through a vicious and messy divorce so those avenues to bore readers rigid with are closed to me. But, as I’m rapidly approaching forty, I expect I’ll have some kind of mental breakdown soon and end up running off to Anglesea with a 17-year-old. It’s either that or do a Perrin and I’m not keen on pigfarming.
The sun’s looking beautiful as it edges over the horizon. I think I’ll go and try and get a snap of it.
Hmmm…that doesn’t do it justice since the brightness of the sun dominates everything. Hold on a mo, let me go and try it from a different angle…
Ooh, that’s a bit nicer. You can see the golden glow of the sun and the moon too.
There’s something glorious about late autumn mornings. On clear days like today, the light suffuses everything it touches – fences, flowers, streetlights, cats and yet it’s still crisp and cold. The air’s also very clear since the smog hasn’t had time to thicken and fuzzy-up the edges. I do feel a bit knackered but I’m glad I didn’t go back to sleep, you don’t get to see many shining mornings like this in life, you have to sneak up on them stealthily.
I bet Main Centre would look nice in this light. Time to go and take some pics!