My experiences of Powys were a truncated attempt at a misspelt Owen Glendower and a few Paul Weston talks on Glastonbury. Paul Weston, a man who sounds like the love child of Tony Adams and Dion Fortune, but I find his zeal quite charming at times. A mate was trying to rope friends into one of Paul’s G’bury tours this year, but then the rona said no.
This morning my first thought was a quiet thank you to the gods for a sleep in. Other half had taken the brood out for a few hours. That’s real love awwww. No emails checked, no noise. Just one human in his pants, dressing gown and long hair drinking tea on a bench in the breeze. You wait weeks, months some times, for a morning with a flat waveform of non disturbance like this. Started raining and while rain is historically character forming, not today. Toast popped. Eggs boiled. Butter melting. You want to know the tell tale smells of Sunday mornings as heaven on Earth? Toast. Thought about a joint, but too early, just that squirrelly part of your brain saying pick up the gun. Resist. Save it and savour it tonight. If you don’t drink, there has to be one pressure valve outside of family.
The same part of my mind that suggested, hinted at, an inappropriately early infusion intervention of cannabinoids started up again - check the news. Check yourself you twat, I’m far too civilised for drive-thru infomercials. Go on, do it, just 5mins. Your hand hovers over the controllers. You crack. “Kanye West to run for president“.
Someone give that woodpecker voice a slap please.