Long one this week, perhaps this is my inner-essayist begging to be freed. Either way, sorry this was a long time coming, I blame it largely on illness and uni. I've got quite a lot of essays incoming as well, but now with the video shift I think I'll be able to keep my flow of both articles and videos quite steady, providing I don't get ill. Also, as those in England know, apparently the mother of all storms is coming. So I'm wishing everyone luck.
Also, I've just purchased an old nostalgic game on the back of Harvey's Harry Potter article, prepare yourselves.
It is hard to believe when I came here.
This town numbered 4 or 5.
When I walk the lit streets at night,
it just feels so alive.
But now winter has arrived.
And my harvest may have stalled
but with the town around my table
it is hard not to feel enthralled.
The mayor sits besides me.
He knew my parents well.
It was his restoration plan
that made our numbers swell.
Beside him are the older residents.
The shopkeeper, she is old and kind.
Her husband, a scruffy fisher.
They will never leave, but they don't mind.
The chef and his waitress, who restaurant I built
They cooked the food despite my insistence.
She is quite a flirt;
despite my resistance.
The journalist starts to eat before anyone else.
I've never met someone so hyper-active.
She has enthusiasm in spades and skill to boot.
Some would find her quite attractive.
The boys sit next to each other.
In their own little clique
Animal handler, hairdresser, prince.
They all look quite chic.
Then there is the blacksmith.
She sits alone and forlorn.
She glances sternly at me
annoyed I rescued her from the storm.
The meal goes well, the feast a success
We drink for winter to end, and to our health.
I look once more, as my friends chat and dance.
Bring on Spring and the vast amounts of wealth.