Thursday, 19 October 2017

MacDonald's is no place for a Countess

In an attempt to find a place of nondescript passive inspiration I made my way yesterday to Macdonald's.
The Great British Secret needs to be written as the characters are currently driving me insane with their derring do and skulduggery, all based on my dodgy friends and enemies of course, rattling around the confines of this novel and as yet waiting for an audience.

'It is coming, coming soon', I tell them. 

My brother, a simple man of simple needs, suspiciously on the autistic spectrum, recommends Macdonald's as they offer cheap coffee (and probably cheap women) and a sort of anonymity for the 'man without office'.

I am prone to give anything a bash.

My brother is a man of early rising and trots to this place of ill repute religiously every morning to partake in his official duties as a dealer in gold. Irony like no other, nuggets of gold and chicken.

Anyway, by the time I had set an alarm, put on some Polyfiller, got upset over the demise of a love affair, searched for a new one and recorded an epiphany from the bath for my YouTube channel, it was late afternoon.

Ah yes, of course it was. There seemed to be an infestation of rodents in school kit in the castle of MacDonald's. Food wrappers, many, food stuff over the floor, customers seemingly well trained at stepping over the debris, a vegan hell hole, a smell of fat that brought to mind Fight Club ( it's how my mind works) and worst of all, if that was even possible, the deafening shrill of the chip fryers as they warn of an impending disaster if someone doesn't take the fucking chips out!

I spoke to my bro who has suggested (with a warning not to succumb to the alcohol, he knows me well), Weatherpersons.

I will let you know how I get on there.

Meantime it is Badminton Thursday and I have an old flame popping round to give me a quote on delivering a piano.

Life goes on and the characters and their secrets wait patiently for realisation.

Pasha x



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