It’s not Spring, in fact it’s freezing, but for the purposes of this blog we must pretend it is; flowers blooming everywhere, sex in season, or whatever Spring is like (from this distance it’s hard to recall). My point being that after all of the atmospheric rain the sky cleared and all of the dripping and reflected lights made the mountaintop forest flora look like water-pastels. Frankie and I had decided that our old, old Shitsville aunts (great-great-great aunts, in fact) would be packed off to Palm Springs in their rich travelling cloaks to live with mein pater (their great-great-nephew, in fact). This was the neat solution to every problem that had presented itself (hence the hay fever-like watering of the eyes); my father Archie, who had never learned that chasing floozies and drunken revelry is less endearing in a man of the middle years than it is in a good looking youth, would make the perfect eternal child for my old, old aunts to coddle; they in their turn are so distressingly filthy they would not be bothered by the concentric circles of fag-ends and other scum in which Archie exists; they had long ago ceased to notice the layers of dust collecting in their witch-like homestead, assuming that the perpetual fog they lived in was due to cataracts. And most importantly in one foul swoop I would be rid of the burden of caring for all of them. Of course you should know that I am quite fond of the old aunts but the time had come for us to part. With the illuminated, visionary gaze of absinthe drinkers Frankie and I looked forward to a glorious future.