It Could Also Be Called Carousing

It is Monday – for many, the start of the week. Let us begin said week, therefore, with a few moments of reflection. You may wish to reflect on nothing in particular; to let life’s waves wash over you gently; to be brushed by the gentle breeze of carelessness. Or you may want to reflect on something quite specific; to roll a tangible ball of thoughts around the open palm of your mind; to poke one’s head through the leafy hedge of knowledge.  Here, then, is a bit of writing:

A foggy Sunday morning on the Strand, two or more years ago. I had found myself there, so to speak; caught myself unawares, after a night of what could only be called revelry. I lie: it could also be called carousing, or maybe even wilful wassailing, but for better or worse, revelry will suit me fine. I was a little worse for wear, needless to say, and more than a little worried over things that might or might not have occurred the preceding evening. Had I really kissed that young Spanish poet?

The author? Miss Heidi Kohlenberg, of course: friend and critic. The source of the quotation? Here it is.

[Kohlenberg was, you will know, one of the more regular contributors to Underneath the Bunker. Various bits and pieces on her (and possibly by her) are collected here.]

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