Okay, so bizarre news is all over the place recently. Michael Owen to Manchester United is not just unexpected it is almost as though history has flung a rumour from ten years ago into the spin-cycle of contemporary headlines: the usual saturation on the sports channels is tinged with total disbelief.
The heatwave now over - ish - I found myself the other night lying in a toasty-warm room, shirtless, listening to Olive's drum-and-bass lead/only single "You're Not Alone", in a scene which could have been another drawn from history and flung through time and space. My cluttered and not-so-ordered mind has not prepared for anything which is to come between now and somewhere on the windier side of October. There's the house-move itself, three weeks of getting to work on a budget tighter than most airlines, a pre-camping holiday drinking session, and the delivery of 2-and-a-bit-thousand Liberal Democrat leaflets. Somewhere at the end of all this is an exhausted body flinging itself into the Ribble. Every other day my mind remembers something important - email landlady, buy a better rucksack, check Burscough's new signings - but until there's one to focus on entirely there's going to be more changeable thoughts, some kind of "cerebral sunshine and showers", for some time yet.