George V – Clitheroe
I could have sworn I wrote a post yesterday. To be fair, I can’t recall a subject, so I may just have thought about writing a post. It was going to be brilliant, as the unwritten ones so often are.
The prose was going to flow like the sweet icy water that runs over stones in an upland stream. The wit was going to illuminate like shafts of late spring sunshine and the general effect was going to be both exhilarating and soothing at the same time. Unfortunately you will have to take my word for it, as I forgot to write it.
My poetry is much the same. Rich billows of vocabulary, always in perfect order, roll across the surface of my mind. But by the time they reach the paper, assuming I don’t forget them on the way towards my pen, they stutter and demand a rewrite as they hit the paper, much like the scratchy and imperfect nib of my malfunctioning fountain pen.
Squirrel in a bin – Clitheroe Castle
Life can be unkind, though at least, as you can see from the title of the post, my ability to write pretentious Victorian titles remains undimmed.
Perhaps I should work on that, developing a body of work in the style of Arthur Enfield Clitherow, railway clerk with the Lancashire & Yorkshire Railway (specifically the Ribble Valley Line) who dreams of life on the canals, or sometimes even dares to speculate about life as a ticket inspector on the Canadian Pacific Railway. I feel a sonnet coming on about the trials and tribulations of a man with an inefficient heating system in his lonely ticket office. Oh yes, a whole new world awaits . . .
Clitheroe from the castle
