Apologies. I got dragged away last week by some old fiends who had been reading this blog and turned up to discuss my lost night in the caravan of mystery. Well, we went back to try and find it but failed and then decided to see if it was on any other sites we knew of by which time we were a long way from my place but close to a  farm where a friend in common lives. I've known him since he was selling funny tobacco in Camden Town many years ago and much altered by a variety of chemicals he went off to write songs in the country and mutated into a smallholder with the usual pigs and chickens. Over the years he acquired an extended family including some outstanding bronzed and muscular daughters who could wrestle bison. It was a delight to watch them at work, lifting barns onto their backs and placing them elsewhere in the fields.

Anyway, the weather was excellent and we spent our time chatting over drinks, including cider produced by a neighbour which could fuel an aircraft carrier but left me disturbingly clear headed the morning and ready for more. Oddly enough the farmer remembered staying at Benyon's flat when he first went to London where he met someone called Wally who broke into the gas meter and took  him to the Isle of White for the megga festival with Dylan headlining, after which life was hazy for several years. He had no idea what happened to Wally who had left taking his leather coat while he slept but several years later he bumped into Benyon in Soho who demanded his gas money back but accepted the two albums in his bag in exchange.

So, I returned to my place yesterday and the sun was beating down so I went down to beach, found my favourite spot between rocks and spent the afternoon with a chilled white wine, imagining how well the farmer's daughters would surf. They would probably ride the surf in a controlled bronzed and muscular pyramid, dismounting the boards effortlessly as they touched the beach
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I shall scan some drawings today as the sun seems to have given up on us.