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February 26th 2010    Tim Candler

    I've got the old man sniffle.  It's from wandering around outside carrying a shovel. 

    The Grey Cat's Mistress calls it a 'cold nose sniffle' and glad to hear that old ladies get it too.  But I bet old ladies do not find their tongue reaching for the top lip in a sad attempt to keep that which trickles out of the nose from reaching the mouth.  A truly unattractive and completely pointless maneuver.

    Yet gardening has begun because otherwise mental health deteriorates, faculties wander and general angst blossoms into peculiar behaviors that include leafing through the herbal in search of the poisonous.

    As well there is always a chance that plants will arrive from those dispassionate multinational catalogue corporations so false in their self appraisal.  

    I will call them bastards and to hell with the possibility of a lightning strike that could give me work as an orderly in the world of another.   I see myself mumbling by the bus stop, where I might serve as an exemplar of  bad attitude, moral decay and obstinacy.

    But it always is like this when requests are dispatched to those physical parts that have atrophied through television, chocolate and long hours of staring at the day. 

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