It’s a most beautiful Sunday morning of a bank holiday weekend. The sun is shining in a cloudless sky yet it’s still not too warm. The air blowing in from the north still has a cut of freshness about it.
Naturally, such fantastic weather has other benefits: outside there are some kids screaming, some kid crying, the neighbour is using a pneumatic hammer to demolish a wall, there’s somebody using a petrol-powered strimmer further away, and from the fields beyond, there’s the truest sound of spring: dirt bikes illegally cutting their merry way along the local nature trail.
And who says we Brits can’t appreciate good weather?
In honour of the day, I've slapped my notebook down and scanned my morning doodle. I'm a great believer in predestination but not the Fall. If there was a Garden of Eden (and I'm pretty sure there wasn't), then our forefathers would have despoiled it long before they got to the apple tree. Blaming the snake sounds remarkably like how we go about things today except these days we have the media to take long lens photographs of the snake, interview other snakes that know him, snakes that have slept with him, and eventually the snake himself who would confess all for a six figure sum (donated to charity) and ask for forgiveness in one cathartic sob over Phillip sodding Schofield's collar followed by the lead role in some West End musical which would see his full rehabilitation.