On behalf of the human race, we would like to thank UNECSO for idenitifying, authenticating and blessing the following omens of good fortune.

  1. Pebble with a hole in it
  2. Butterfly on a cowpat
  3. Bird cracking open a snail
  4. Slug stuck to your wing mirror at 30mph+
  5. Hat at a stile
  6. 3 or more crickets in song (note: 2 is a curse, so train those ears)
  7. Signs with spelling mistakes
  8. Coke can squashed flat to the diameter of its lid
  9. 5 grey cars on the trot
  10. Raindrops dancing on a spider’s web
  11. Cockeyed thistle blossom (ie: min 35 degrees off vertical)
  12. An oscillating leaf
  13. Flight of steps that amount to a double digit prime number
  14. Bench dedicated to a dog
  15. Pentagonal manhole cover
  16. One stray shoe
  17. One stray sock (40% less lucky than a shoe)
  18. A cuttlefish inland
  19. Any animal flossing
  20. Rainblurb – a rainbow that can’t quite come into full focus
  21. Rabbit on a gravestone


What happens if you start writing without any idea of the end of the sentence let alone the purpose that set you off in the first place? Was it a jolt? Anger? Thought? The inane nag of being counter-productive for so much of each day? Sometimes we just need to put one finger in front of the other and write goddammit. And every time we stop to pause for breath in order to respect the reader, we lose that glorious oomph, that force 10 tailwind that cuts us loose and says ‘tell the world about nothing’. Just tell, for telling’s sake.

Sake is a word worth tattooing. Sake is one hell of a word to carve into your tombstone. Sake is a drink to get drunk on.

Sorry, almost hit a vein of logic there. Wouldn’t want that, would we? We need to read in a manner as recreational as doing drugs. We need to veer and not be steered. We need to stumble and hurt ourselves as we go. If we see the step in front, the journey becomes stale and we bale. The rhyme creeps up on us, we can’t go looking for it. Like the greatest shocks in life, it’s silent, then violently noisy, all within a split second.

Two minutes on from the first word, we are nowhere near a conclusion, a plot, an idea that feels like it pays you back for throwing some brain time at this. One fucking tiny glint you secretly crave, until the subconscious says stop playing pilot and freewheel into more murk. Drum thumbs super-lightly against temple. Lovely, huh? And free. Fee hides within free, yet no two words in the English language harbour more hate for one another.

Sleep right through into mid-morning, bypassing the day you were expecting. Risk the ramifications. That depth of slumber will add 17 days to your life expectancy. On the 16th day, you’ll feel a bit peaky and know it will be time. But it won’t hurt. It’ll be sleepy, comfy, gentle.

The way we’d all like to go.