Unspectacular

Dear Diary,

Well, events of note that hath transpired du jour include meeting a foxy Indian linguist (5 languages, including Nipponese) this morning. The exotic goddess bade me stay and talk awhile whilst I await my bus, I was too timid and bailed out.

On my way to the lecture I spied a lone magpie, surely portending sombre fortune.

So anyway, I grooved back into town, On the Flex for once, spied a soaring falcon. I considered picking some wild flowers for a momento, decided against it, then came across a dragonfly I had passed on my walk in. The little feller was brown-bread, dodo stylee. I scooped his colourful corpse up after chanting litany for his departing spirit. I should find a taxidermist, or at least an empty jam jar.

The stroll into town was pleasant, the rivers agreeable. I grabbed a bottle of source (Wild Wood was all they had) and marvelled at the magnificent architecture. Amazing. Hitler wanted to set up his H.Q. here: I can see why. Everybit as nice as Bath or Bristol, just ... better. I'm so proud to be English. Would that Pangloss were here, he'd appreciate this place as much as me. Moreso, for he knows more about it. About everything as a matter of fact. 196 I.Q. Jesus! If virtue is a kind of knowledge then Maxy is surely not merely 139.

Anyhow, I saw some very f- average street entertainers, some drawing scores of people. I wish I had brought my axe (my guitar) as the slide-player I saw played like luke-warm milk, and he didn't sing. If you play alone, you must sing, or you won't earn much but sympathy money. Unless you're John Netheridge or the like. I remember playing Bluejass music with Grant Scot McCormick, hoboing in Lyon. We played for ages, hours, and didn't earn a single centime. I then began to sing, the money came flooding in straight away. Proof. Pudding. Anyhow, no wonder this average player had no gigs, and no more than three coins in his hat. Even in a small town like mine I earn ten times as much as he, and this place is packed with people. Ripe for the pickings, fertile fleeceing ground. The fool.

So, I'm headin' back to the scummy village filled with freindly faces. I loves it.

Adios blogworld,

Maximus Fleximus.