Shelter

The sellers of ice cream arrived before the storm. They drove along the streets of London, sneaking glances over their shoulders. Somewhere lurked a great storm beast with terrible teeth that could not be denied.

Time to pay the piper.

Or that's how I imagine Ray Bradbury would have described last week, had he been here for the epic sunshine, and witnessed the ice cream men blockading every playground exit and entrance in London. 

My children have now had ice cream up to their eyeballs. Who knows - it could now rain from here to October. The smug ice cream men have driven away, just like Sylvester McMonkey Mcbean and his money printing machine.

The cool wind returned this week. And with it two gabillion deadlines. So to the grindstone. 

Posts may be moderate or poor, occasionally good for the next two months, before eventually clearing.