“You really should be thinking,” murmurs The Sage.

He may have a point, but how can I possibly think with all these distractions? My bucket of coffee is piping hot and outside it’s a lovely spring day, welcome sunlight tempered by just the gentlest of spring breezes ruffling both hair and filmy summer dresses alike—

“That’s exactly it—” (do I sense a hint of disapproval in his tone?) “you should be concentrating on the issues, not being so easily distracted by feminine wiles. And you a married man, too.”


Definitely disapproval. Wowser.

But it’s not a problem. Spouse and I have an accord, I’m allowed to look but not touch. Hell, at my age I can’t even catch.

The Sage may have a point though. I’ve already fallen madly in love at least three times:  a green-eyed redhead with a ponytail and enchanting smile; a slim-trim blonde with legs all the way to her—

“Keep it seemly, Lad!”

—brain. And the dark-eyed dark-haired diminutive beauty who works here and pulls the perfect coffee every time.

Enough diversion, I was trying to re-invent a few more wheels but gave it away to perve at a pretty passel of passing pulchritude. Enough! Judy calls—

“Judy?” He’s being to sound more impatient than advisory.

“Duty. A Freudian slip.”

I go back to thinking but it’s no good. Philosophical thoughts morph too quickly into reminiscences—

“No regrets, Lad! Y’ve set y’self a task, get on with it.”

Task, yes … political reform based on thoughts from beyond the box.

Outside a giggle of passing schoolgirls strolls by, momentarily obscuring my view of the organic chimneys forever banned by new laws to practising their vice in furtive doorways.

“Don’t y’ mean ‘gaggle’, Boy?”

I ignore him. With geese it’s gaggle, with girls it’s giggle. Stet.

“Political reform, Lad?”

Damn. He’s not going to let it rest. PR it is, then.

I’ll have to start by revamping my blogs so that only one records the lighter side of life and sharing physical space with a deceased grumpy old sea-dog who guzzles rum and my coffee at any opportuni—

—how the hell did he manage it this time? My mug is empty and I’d been watching it intently.

Outside another blonde goes by, light on her feet with hair flying fluttering like pennants in the breeze. I think I’ve just answered my own question.

Time, I think, to concentrate on the issues. I believe I have the answer—I’ll get another latté venti and shift my flag to an upwind table outside where the perving is better. To hell with politics on a day like this.

“Perhaps later then, Lad?” I sense the resignation in his tone.

Indeed, later.

I’ll revamp my blogs, possibly post my suggestions for world-changing in ‘Ventis Mutationis‘—

“Winds of Change, in pig-Latin? He sounds incredulous.

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it—you’ve no idea how many titles I went through before they’d let me have that one. And it’s real Latin.” So there. Snort.

So Ventis will hold political snippets, observations, and commentary but one of my other blogs will be the suggestions for how such necessary changes may be instigated and accomplished.

And if anyone wants a slightly used Sage cheap I’ll be putting him on eBay and TradeMe if he keeps guzzling my coffee like that.




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