After Grace Nicholls ‘Thoughts Drifting…’ Thoughts Drifting Through a Large Legged Irish Yorkshire Woman’s Head While Waiting for her Daughter to Finish Piano Lessons. Vaporous clouds Vaporous sea Vaporous mists Vaporous me. Irish, Norman, Ancient Britton, Viking. All those cold-blooded North-Sea coracle paddlers. Windy wing moors subsisters. Earth scrapers. Low-stone-sod-turf-thatched dwellers. My ancestors. As I sit in this cold, wintry, wet morning trying to be spring. Slate grey day in a centre surrounded by rooms. Shards, broken music, fragments with an overall Big Band underlay of ‘Hakuna Matata’ and two little boys playing shop with the books. Is my lack of awareness of time, structure, being there part of turning my back on the ‘Authority’ of the ‘Father’ he said it – I will oppose and resist aggressively be angry and polite at the same time loose myself in the red mist of stupidity the anger haze that obst...