Be At(t)itude, Be Nice.

I’m twentieth century, second chiliad. An orphan.

 

Two of my musical heroes, three stage partners, one very close friend - all long passed. 

The house lived in in London, Edinburgh, Vancouver, the Spanish holiday hotel and the tree outside the piano teacher’s house - all demolished. The latter by the storm this summer that felled another next to my own house. It could have been worse. 

 

It could be worse.

 

My knee aches when the weather is uncertain, but it still bends. My wrists complain when I push them and my eye-sight is approximate, mainly memory. But apart from that – well, I’m alive ain’t i?

 

Ain’t? 

London town. Not cockney but it’s there in the family. In the voice, the words sometime used. But so is the north, a roll of vowel that was my mother’s mother. Farming stock. Only a memory.

 

Memories. A lot of them. Mostly good, the bad ones confined to the depths of despair where they shalt remain.

 

Shalt?

Biblical. Biblical times, religious instruction at school, bible class in the church, confirmed and relapsed. A St Christopher’s medal when he was still a saint, share a name. Not saint. Though blesséd be the meek for they shalt inherit the world. Does being meek make me a saint?

Why ten commandments? Why not just the one?

 

Be nice.