Homage to a particular wordsmith.

I wandered lonely as a cloud,
and then i thought, "Sod it,
i'll have a pint instead."

I'm happily perched on the edge of my very wedgewood-esque queen bed, the tea not so far from arms reach, Beatrix Potter's home next door in the village of Hawkshead, somewhere in the Lake District. A typical english drizzle smothers the pastoral hills in light mists not too far from a lake. But the photograph is a lie. That's taken from our lodgings in a glen in Scotland- Glencoe, where an infamous massacre took place. Perhaps the erratic internet will permit me to upload more piccys. We shall see. Indeed Great Britain feels somewhat peculiar- arousing a mixed feeling of homecoming to a home we never had, but only lived through our imaginations concocted by the english childhood literature of our upbringing.