Prodigal Son

Oh no!  He's back.

You don't get rid of Brize that easily.  I have been both a son and prodigal in my lifetime but I don't think I had realised the enormity of my crimes.  I tuned into Steel Pulse last night.  For those unenlightened Rastafari, you need to check out Handsworth Revolution.  I believe David Hinds is still creating, but the vinyl from the late 70s fashioned my mood.  My life is luxurious compared to some of his named brethren.  I advise you to seek out the Soledad Brothers for an insight...

Anyway, musical and historical race relations aside, I decided to sleep on the matter of melancholy.  In the bracing pre-dawn before Matins on a Sunday morning, contrary to prediction yesterday, I leapt from my bunk with a springy step and a zesty leer, ready for the new week.  Or, at least, with a modicum of interest and a degree of optimism.  Mr Hinds would concur, that though desperation had returned to him, light was visible at the end of a very long tunnel.  And no, in Carry On style, I do not have the telescope the wrong way around.

Having chatted with the daughter of delight, I realise that my tribulations are as nothing compared to the woes of mock examinations.  I stand, quivering, corrected.  Said quivering not being part of the reportoire of Numbers One and Two this morning, their games having been called-off due to inclement weather.  Pussies!  I cycled twelve miles today, in darkling dawn and blackened night, just to do some shop-fitting.  If I had been a little more 'prodigal' perhaps I should have done some shop-lifting...

...on second thoughts, perhaps not!  The Latin, as my daughter would doubtless mockingly attest, refers to the prodigal being driven into the arms of his creditors as a prospective slave.

Now think about David Hinds' beliefs, and there is a rounding to this latest bauble.

Me gone!