The spring greens of the golf course trees tremble in the tender sunlight of the end of the world afternoon. All the trademarks of nature since a short while have an end of the world aura. Hangover of this fin de siecle, scrambling and scrabbling to get not just a century, but a whole millenium, underway. I will buy the reality of this summer of love if it is for sale. All across the richly hide of green fur prolific baize of Durdham Down, runners in groups, people in training, rugby league and rugby union tackling in merriment, prove to me that relationships are beginning to work and be worked upon.

Z

There's been shedloads of bad luck lately, I cannot even believe that this is not normal. Did I strive to become a grown up, only to be faced with huge personal and collective challenges? Me, mine and fate - the gloves are off. My misunderstood tarot card - the wheel of fortune. Those dicey Egyptians who brought luck to the table, and the subsequent contributions of the Romans and Greeks. Fridays can be scary with special helpings of both malheur and bonheur. Western Civilisation thrives on the mighty currents streaming down from antiquity. Chop and chop again. Some of my dad's ashes are going to be scattered in my back garden, and my mum's and my brothers' too. As gardeners, Jackie and I plan to choose a plant shrub or tree to be planted in a hole lined with his ashes. Karma, karma, blind justice, travelling across multi-billion light years just to lightly brush my soul and cut down my plans and any puerile adulation to the deaf and lurid statue that is, Lady Luck.

Z

Since he died 3 weeks ago, have I used a variety of methods in an attempt to confirm or refute the notion that his life underwent obliteration (Dad).

Perhaps it befits me to keep that largely inconsequential notion between parenthesis.

He held the belief that some still hold, that of an afterlife (kindof debrief is what I imagine). Apart from that he was a very intelligent person.

He may have raised his eyebrows (if they survived cremation) at the sight of those quaint golden gates and all those pansies with white smocks plucking at their comrades heart strings (awwww).

Doesn't it piss you off to keep being reminded that death can so easily spring out at us from behind a tree? Or from some poxy car (usually second hand) derailling up the sidewalk and making our guts spew over some hapless git's windscreen.

Oh yes! Death! Killing me softly with his song, killing me softly.

RIP dad, you old git - I love you, ace Skyrider.

Z