1133 words this morning.
102 735 in total.
Corpse-Rat King is finished.
Just a little bit of genius from the immortal Joe Strummer to get us all through a stinking hot Sunday morning:
In honour of my wonderful childerbugs’ birthdays, their favourite Punk-litery to twitch your 80s bop-memory.
And just in case you thought this blog was about to fall permanently into mush and emotional blether, I give you this, without a word of explanation.
Erin is 8 today.
It is too easy to lapse into hyperbole when talking about your loved ones. But it is nothing more than unvarnished truth to say that, without Erin, I would not be alive. The story of why belongs in the past, but at the time, she was the rope I clung to in order to climb back to the world. Without her, I would not have met Luscious. Without her, I would not have found a new family. Without her, I would not have seen the life I have seen over these last 8 years. She carries within her the part of me that I lost, and could only regain through her.
She is a child of caring and delight, who thinks Captain Sensible is marginally better than Pink; who sees no problem in growing up to be an artist, dancer, teacher, and nurse all at the same time, as long as she can still play basketball; who will thank a friend for coming to play by making her a set of earrings; who can make horns with her lower lip and turn her tongue upside down; and I cannot look at her without a blinding pride.
Happy birthday, my most beautiful daughter.