Not everything in this garden is rosy

Pretty ominous title isn’t it? But you know, text CAN be read in many different ways can’t it! Literally, as in, it’s true. NOT everything in this garden is rosy. There may be trees, grass, a shed or a gate. OR figuratively, like my life is a garden and not everything is beautiful and pleasing.

Deep I know. Me putting meaning to my words (that will be a first). No direct rants, no Venting my spleen in a Neanderthal manner with bad words and phrases. Just nice serene English (with possibly a smidge of sarcasm) This could be a new direction (another one) and I will look back after posting to see if it sits well with me, or my colon erupts with the strain of niceness.

As I sit in one of my old haunts, contemplating life with a cup of coffee and a sticky bun, I stare through the huge glass window at the myriad of life swanning past with both reason, and non. It’s warm inside, it’s cold outside, but the populous are clinging to that ancient british belief that it’s summer, and in summer you wear shorts and flip flops. Yes you do! When it’s summer! And the sun is out, and it’s warm. It’s warm inside, it’s fucking Baltic outside!

DAMN! I nearly did it. I nearly created a piece of writing without swearing, hence revealing my desire to stamp on peoples faces with me bike boot. SEE, I’m unravelling my niceness in this paragraph, and it was going to be so lovely being nice and wordy. Fuck it. Morpeth’s full of cunts!

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