Rain-spit / rain-drip /what-you-will, too light to call a drizzle fell all afternoon, as out we walked through these drift-dreaming streets, whose Tudor chimneys stand high guardsmen, gargoyles, as in astral vomit lean 'far-out' over, and phallic spikes in ocher stone-bulges, set in their stylized aspirations, as pointedly ignore the colored crowd below as they are shunned by the pavement domain, who stroll their weave through window-land - so few sky eyes to look up, wow, and click.
All the way out down Trumpington Road to the Panton Arms for a pint with Vicky, outside under glass, at the courtyard back, and thence to the Fitzwilliam for a mooch and a lollygag at swords, muskets, coins, ending with a focus on their few Canalettos.
On the way back, to Sis' house, myth-talking, heroes with downsides: 'Daedalus, dropped his nephew out a window - asshole,' says Urshie. 'Mm. But people always cluster stories to balance things up. Jason was doing so well, but what then, Medea?' 'Perseus was a decent bloke,' she ventures. 'He is a star (well a bunch of stars)', like Earandil, in Tolkien, sailing his blessed boat, Iggle-Piggle-like to the Night Garden,' I say. That raises a laugh or too.
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Past cake shops and cafes, the wet air smoked like a joss-stick: cannabis traces (no cheap skunk) perfumes of passersby, drafts of shop doorways glowed in my mind's delight, as if some seventies charlatan guru was due to sweep through, garlanded in paper flowers
or hieratic rood-screen heavy censers, drifted from oak of a high-church college-chapel mixed dilute with mundane and demotic patchouli oil and coffee grounds.
