The pavement between a couple of counties sometimes has to move indirectly in order to move directly from one county to another, and it’s identical to my insistence on using the phrase “I [fecking] mean” in my writing and in my speaking (which unfortu-nate-ly) I do more than my writing, which is a joke -- as generally there is zero folksins about and there is literonz nothing better to do than write.
Not packed; 6am departure, and so now it’s fit to type for a bit, whereas the copious gaps, and five minute periods that Easter and inactivity have provided are not used up. Again, in any gap: nothing superior in spurring me on than writing.
The pavement, as I said is not necessarily direct, it can be [au natur] but it’s simply a sweet trek when you have to take the first right, second left, first right, Little Chef, steal Little Chef lollies, bail, left, right, [and I mean bail] some sort of comedy wheel spin and we would be talking. That is it: with the wheel spin we bail and then with a glove box full of lollies we cross the border.
What a quiet lay-by, we chill in the tree/field alley and by about four we head back (indirectly) between counties. Road trips provide a bit of Timothy time to write in. I'll miss them when they are sold out, square and gone.
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