In my current scribbling endeavour I am trying to make clarinet music come out of a flute. It’s a humbling experience, I have to say.  No time for deciphering unusual key signatures.

Akin to being a hefty bellied bunny inside a sack, in a race, where a sprint is required.

Did a mention a peculiar lavender coloured sky? Alas it was two weeks ago, but I am only remembering it now.

This evening at gymnastics I completely thrased (typo, but nice medley of thrashed and erased) myself and am sure the muscular protest will be a 7.1. However I came home and examined photographs of what is taking place in Cairo and it wiped all physical reticence from my mind.

The commitment of these people. The images of a single person surrounded by a dome shaped mass of black sticks, truncheons raining on them. One image, in particular, a young man standing solo in front or behind a water cannon, defiant.  There was almost a silence he created in his positioning. Something of it hushed all that was taking place beyond, which included a swell of people. The scale of him against that moving machine.  It’s an image we’ve seen before in different incarnations and yet each time it reaches me again it produces some kind of instant hush for a few moments.  Until again the roar rises.

My partner co-incidentally later read aloud a quote from an art catalogue he was reading that I must seek and note here.