I’m often faced with the thought of shit, what do I write this week. It’s not a case of having nothing to write about, more having too much. There's a few places where I deposit random thoughts for this newsletter. In my notes app; a couple of opening lines or paragraphs. And, in my inbox. On the move I’ll type an idea into the subject line of an email and send it to myself, flagging it yellow which corrals it with the other ideas I’m convinced in that moment are golden.
Some thoughts see the light of day and others not. The latter aren’t bad as such, just good one liners or in need of time that I don’t have. Though, put them together and you could say you’ve got a bag ‘a scraps. That’s what I’m serving you today. Don’t be offended; scraps can be delicious.
Whether you immediately relate to a bag ‘a scraps is perhaps a question of age and where you grew up. As kids we’d roam far and wide on foot and by bike. We’d climb trees and build dens, but were also a little less Enid Blyton in scaling walls and fences, trespassing on building sites and in derelict factories, prank calling from the local phone box, and building ramps so that we could jump an old bike off a sheer drop into the river below. On occasion, there was theft. Memorably a haul of porn mags from a lock up garage, crawling through an asbestos panel that had been kicked in by some older kids. Five Go Stealing Jazz Mags is not a title you’re likely to find anytime soon.
Running feral is a hungry business. We’d find ourselves at the Cemetery Chippy, asking for a bag ‘a scraps; mostly shards of crisp, golden batter that had broken away as fish was put in or taken from the heated cabinet, and dredged up from the fryer.
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