There’s this place I go sometimes. It’s partly a state of mind, but mostly it’s a tangible place. A wooden bench with a cast-iron frame set in the unadorned ambience of suburban woodland. Splendidly bejeweled with the years of idle teenage gossip, which rest scored, fat-tipped and copydexed onto it’s worn, weathered form. Its welcoming accommodation permits me a rare franchise of melancholy during times of emotional crisis. There are numerous benches, which dutifully attend my pernickety gravel path as it follows the course of a narrow river. Only one of these...
The march of the modern diggers.
I can't fully explain what the title of this post means. It was just a catchy phrase that jumped into my head while thinking about a title. I think it has something to do with...