Braidwood Ave

There used to be days when I’d come home late when I still had plenty of juice left in me, and ideas buzzing in my head, days when I would end up sitting at my desk in front of my PC tapping away at this blog. I didn’t always  know what I had to say, but knew I wanted to say something. I liked those days.

That happens hardly ever any more, pretty much because I don’t really have a home. Tonight is  an exception to at least part of that.

Because there’s not much to do down here I took myself off to the local cinema tonight and caught up with Interstellar. I like it very much. It’s my sort of movie, a bit provocative, a lot mysterious, fascinating all round and just a little bit intellectual. Well made, well written, well directed, and well acted. Tell ya, Matthew McConaghy in his second incarnation is a tremendously attractive actor. He believes in himself now, you can see, and has quit trying to act.

I’m not going to go on about the movie. This isn’t a movie  review. This is a time and place thing. I got out of the cinema just before midnight and was first to my car. The streets  of Rosebud were quiet on the way back – I saw only one other car. I drove up to the converted double garage that is my temporary home, and Rigby was waiting for me, his whole body wagging with his happy tail. He’s my travelling home.

This is the time and place. Crack a cool drink, sit and start writing, the dog settling at your feet. You think, the  movie still in you, how we’re  on a globe travelling through space – Stephen Hawking was just telling me yesterday – was  it 94,000 miles every hour? It’s quiet out, the old people asleep and their mobility scooters plugged in for a re-charge. Soon bed for me, but say, many more years beyond this to come. Fancy that.


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