Camping Trip

Evidence of Daniel Taylor's escalating madness no. 1
Originally uploaded by bumpoowilly.

So this is the thing. So this is where we are. All this is meant to be is a blog entry about our camping trip to Devil's Dyke. But all that imposes on my tongue are bitter lines about adultery.

"So write the script - illness and debt,
a ring thrown away in a garden
no moon can heal, your own words
commuting to bile in your mouth, terror -

and all for the same thing twice."

It was a camping trip. There was no adultery.

In fact it was a spendid camping trip. It's such a good thing that a short bus-ride out of Brighton leads us to the downs, owls and rabbits and badgers and foxes and possibly some kind of psy-trance rave coming over the hill.

Tents. Cooking. Gin and Tonics. Anna's Birthday. Daniel Taylor getting up at seven each morning and walking back into Brighton for work. "They're tents. They don't have walls." A thunderstorm. We found a park ranger who was going to show us some adders, but we never saw any. At one point, we went for a walk, and were all lying on our backs in the field. As this includes Jacob, it looks like we were all lying callously around a poor man in a wheelchair who had fallen over and couldn't get up.

A splendid weekend out. When we got home, we ended up at a street party in Erica's street. Musicians, cider, bathtubs. Phone Nast Dave. Rosanne; "I've got three hours off. I can drink a bottle of wine in three hours." She sure could. Dom is going to get married. He didn't let us meet his Fiancee.