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A regular Thursday, Sun shining (erm... all right, regular for some, as the grumbles from the folk out in Co. Clare start to filter in, and we ask ourselves, why oh why did we ever think wiring up the west was a good idea, you can just never make that lot happy, and if you keep it up we're going to get smart and turn off your phones again like we've done with the Sun), wind blowing in a nice fashion from off the... well, from off elsewhere, couldn't exactly place it, if you asked me, I was going to say the sea, but I'm nowhere near a sea, nor was I, so, while it might be technically correct that the breeze did, indeed, blow in from off the sea, at some point, far far away, it obviously is a gross mis-use of the statement, and all further qualifications I might wish to make could be, rightfully, called into question for their far-fetchedness, nor can I rightfully say the breeze blew in from the plains, as I'm surrounded by a good deal of tall buildings, and it would be some stretch of the imagination to invoke plains from so many hundred metres of glass and steel, especially when the wind, one would imagine, is considerably more likely to sneak about amongst these buildings than blow with any degree of conviction (though it likely to be an evil type of sneaking, not timid, as you get the feeling it's about to leap out from around a corner and pummel you senseless, steal your coat, and rush on it's merry way, to topple some old man near a rubbish bin), the world seeming a fresh and beautiful (save the wind, if it does, indeed, decide to turn nasty and tangle your clothes about your person in an intangible (or untangle-able) mess) thing, all thanks to this bit of apple I seem to have stuck in my eye.
disclaimer:
Mmmm... cinnamon apples.
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Yer Weekly Horoscopes. Chicken!