A Cup of Tea

Sydney Youngblood, I'd Rather Go blind. (well, all that smoke)

I make tea, it is the natural companion to pot. Always has been. LouLou drinks the stuff by the litre, but then she is quite possibly a bigger pothead than me. Oh yes, she is.

The smoke has cleared. I close the windows and the doors.

More logs on the fire. Warm the place up. 

What do I care about living on my own. I'm not sure I'd notice, anyway. Other people. You know. Who does? 

Tea is the nectar of the gods, as far as gravel mouth and no spit goes. 

Another joint?

I think about the ‘Life of Pi’ and ‘The Five People You Are Most Likely To Meet In Heaven’, my ex-girlfriend's contribution to my general, literary, wellbeing. I palmed of ‘Ludmilla's Broken English’ on her, after I read my second bad review.

But who can read with all this smoke? Er, smoking?

Billie Holiday, sings Lady in Satin. Oh yeah, that voice. It’s how we all feel, late Sunday. It’s like therapy for the beleaguered and the hard done by, and dare I say the, er, tired and emotional. Just hearing her struggle, torn into her very vocal cords.