Adiaphora

Dear Diary,

What the Flex is going on? Well, I ran a couple of errands today, milk, tabac', for Wolfairy. Immediately regretted doing so, for lack of tact, subtlety, in being vociferous regarding certain matters of all sensitivities that bequeath a hazy evening. Alas, methinks it best to hold thy tongue. Of course, the bar-maid ex-landlady, sleeping five in a shared room, and paying seventy par semaine for the privilege no less, hath ratted on Maxy for strong-arming some Camden carrot t'other night. 'Tis of no consequence. The maidens dids't resist mine poesy and I was promptly slung out, afore cementing the other errand of babysitting tomorrow night. So be it.

Maxy is hazy right now. *takes a puff of paradise* *exhales in betwixt nibanna* I hath given up the dreaded tabac'. No more booze. Nor smoke. Tabac' at least. Time enough for a sly pip, headin' back on the Flex, all thoughts of time lost. What happened today?

As I did run mine errand I noticed a bus with the number-plate 'Flex' or 'FLX' rather. Cool. I floated back from the shop. Played some guitar up on the hill, had a load of flack for not being on the flex, then made up for it by quirky poesy and guitar playing. Such is life in Maxy's world. I feel like J. Springer saying this but, I do believe,

Take Care of Yourself,

and Each Other,

Maximus. xx