Three's a crowd

Crowds are what faced me once I had alighted the bus and headed towards Chester cathedral and town hall square.  I had forgotten about the newly unveiled travelling sculpture Knife Angel being a magnet for both locals and tourists, the latter being mainly from the orient and of diminutive size.  Now i'm not saying that's a bad thing but they do have a tendency to suddenly appear under my feet and they're incredibly lucky to not be crushed by my size 11 (US12) trotters.  Think of that squelchy popping sound that slugs make and imagine the carnage that could have ensued.  Thankfully this didn't happen and especially not within the sight of "God". The sculpture was more impressive than I had first thought when I saw the announcements in our local newspaper.  I guess matt paper and black ink doesn't do justice to anything with a sheen of bronze, silver and gold. I was most impressed by the rear view of the angel and it's beautifully formed bubble butt covered by a winged cape of knives.  
The artist Alfie Bradley was there talking to whoever wanted to meet him and seemed to have a warm and smiling nature, which is commendable given the fact that he must repeat the same answers to the same questions time and again.  I would have been tempted to make up stories that changed with the weather just to entertain myself. The last thing to say about him is that Yes, I wouldn't kick him out of bed as long as he leaves the angel at home.  Three's a crowd, innit?  I wandered off without offering him my manky old carcass as a pillow for the night.
Knife Angel - Official web story

Whilst in Chester I bought the obligatory milk, a dozen eggs to continue with the bowel binding plan and lastly decided to buy some puppy pads for my ageing and loose Dorothy. It's not something I had considered I would be using again but it's got to be better than my fingers slipping through cheap loo paper and being left with that smell of shit all day as I put my fags to my lips.  Obviously I wash them thoroughly but it's a smell that lingers.  If you are wondering what I mean try fingering your own arse and you'll soon learn a lesson about that activity. On the bus back into Wales the heavens opened and my proposed trip to Flint was discarded. Hence I am still Ecclefechanless unless Delia Smith takes pity on me and pulls her finger out of her arse.  I wonder if it smells? I think they'll wait until I visit Knobhead and Dickhead later in the week for my best mates fix.

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