Cry havoc!

Inconceivable

Merde, merde, merde, merde!!!!!!!!!!! After scrubbing the laptop the other day, I have just discovered that whilst I backed everything up on the computer itself, google doc’s, printed everything that required editing, and saved to multiple usb’s, I have somehow lost between 15,000 and 20,000 words. Not only did I backup the wrong version of Bast, as in the second most recent, as opposed to the most recent, I didn’t print off those words either. My word count should have been roughly120,000, not somewhere just over 100,000 as I had originally totalled. At least there is no one to blame other than little old me. Roughly a months work lost to the Matrix. MERDE!

Blah, blah, after the read click the picture above. Seriously good tunes tonight.

Below is something I wrote a while ago after observing the kids, which left me with the hints of nostalgia wafting around me enough to put pen to paper, bashing out a few words as testament to my childhood.

Hamish

11am, first Saturday of the third term school holidays.

Western Australia.  Spring. Bee’s, flowers, crickets warming their wings for the summer to come. Grandma’s back yard. A small dog is part of the fray.

Big sky, a back lawn due to be mown, the sound of someone nearby doing just that in which ever backyard of their own they found themselves.  Nooks, crannies, warmth, and kids. All outside, all covered in curiosity and fun derived dirt.

Games, adventure’s, digging, tree climbing, bike riding, playing, mimicking, dressing up, hiding running. Ten, eleven, and twelve years of age.  Adults in their own mind, parents considered ancients from another planet here on earth.

Leaf matter, bearer of treasures long lost, lovingly found.  Imaginations soaring, a grandmother calling.

“Wash you hands you lot!  And use the flannel to clean your face!” the old lady scolded; the trace of her smile giving way to the tenderness of heart, and love filled humour.

Food for kids.  Plain, simple, filling, hot, stick to your ribs food.  “My goodness, what hollow legs you must all have!” “Thank you’s”, and “may I leave the table” follows. The dashing of like minded confederates make for the back door, and the half acre continent lying ahead.

The dog run’s yapping amongst them, part of the fun, keeper of secret’s and slayer of beasts.

Mosquito bite’s, grazed knees, leaves in hair, crescent moons of dirt beneath every nail, ear’s filled with dirt.  Bare feet red to the knee, clothes had never looked so abused nor involved, and the cat slinks into the bathroom to watch these wild creature’s being washed with a strong and wrinkled grandma’s hand, listening to the broken snippets of the day that was; plan’s for the day to follow, conspiracies whispered, and laughter at exploits had.

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