The Nights are Drawing In

Perpetual rural drizzle. Almost as bad as ubiquitous urban drizzle, but not quite.

A big fat high pressure system has stalled just above Cheltenham and is allowing a weak front to deposit dampness on my cranium. I would be less annoyed about this if I was bald, but being reasonably hirsute regard it as conclusive proof of the non existence of God. Having said that, the magic mushrooms are coming along splendidly so perhaps there's something to be said for the Great Spaghetti Monster in the Sky.

Norwegian shamans used to swear by these:


They didn't eat them raw though. Much nicer to drink the urine of a Reindeer that had partaken and then dance around the camp fire summoning the ancestors.

I wouldn't want to summon my ancestors, they'd just complain that it was too cold and damp and insist that I listen to Jim Reeves while they devoured my precious.

You can't choose your relatives, and there's always the chance that mad Anglo Irish Great Aunt Maggie might turn up and start entertaining us with her harpsichord.