Blog: Asleep on the compost heap

What a classic Winter's day it was in Kells today; vintage, picture postcard stuff. Salmon sunset, furry frost, static plumes of smoke frozen hallucination-pink above chimneys and the rhythmic clink of my frigid testicles knocking together as I walked across the town. When Jack Frost is working overtime, even the shittiest things are blessed with a touch of beauty. Only on a day like today could a discarded Club Orange can look like a mysterious ice age artefact half-buried in the permafrost. Kells is built on a hill. My housing [...]