Early mourning.

I find that I get my best ideas and inspirations when I need to go to sleep.  More to the point - when I need to go to sleep because I have to be up early the next day.  Sometimes I want to take a picture that I know will not be possible to take again for a long time.  Other times, I just want to draw until I have no more ink.

I have just come back from work after closing up and finishing later than I thought possible.  It's 04:20 (as you can probably see form the 'time posted' bit at the bottom).

I was offered a lift home, which I declined (in the end).  The allure of the early morning birdsong was too much.  I just wanted to walk home and listen to Ms Nature.  I was trying very hard to think of when I would have another possibility to experience such an opportunity to find myself, by chance, in this situation again.  I thought I could easily set my alarm and go out for a dawn-break walk, but that would defeat the spontaneity somewhat.  Besides; I'd just go back to sleep anyway - annoyed at myself that I thought it was a good idea to wake me up at 03:00.

This walk home was pretty amazing, though.  As it was dawn, it was possible to see things, which gave me more confidence to walk home through a stretch of Southport that rivals the notoriety of piss bridge/rape bridge/nazi bridge/junkie bridge/death bridge.  You know where I mean.  If you don't, don't worry.  It is pretty much exactly how I have described it.  You're not missing out.

The birdsong was intense.  Calls from everywhere - the trees on the outskirts of my view, the tops of the lamp-posts, the tops of the buildings in the distance.  Geese honking across the other side of the Marine Lake.  A single gull drifted above me, highlighted pink by the rising sun.  Another gull a bit further on changed the status of the first gull to one of a pair.  It didn't seem to care, though.  I did.  It spoiled this part of the blog.  The bridge was silhouetted against the pink sky; the Lake mirroring the colours above it as its edges lapped against the banks.

Some more walking brought me to the edge of the calmer area, where the giggly shrieks of a girl and the slow silencing of the birds could be heard.  Getting further away, the gulls started to squawk.  I always imagine them as the English equivalent of the Hyena.  As the hyena chuckles, it conjures up images of blokes in their mid 20s, snickering like ne'er-do-wells at something inexplicably funny.  As the gull squawks, it brings images of a fat lady cackling to mind, with an association to Bingo, for reasons that escape me.

As I crossed the road, the giggling girl and her friends passed me in a car.  A bloke gestured a thumbs up to a cab that was parked in the middle of the road, asking for a lift.  No such luck.  The man and his lady friend crossed the road and started walking behind me, where she let out a big, classy belch.

Moving towards the outskirts of the town, the birds got louder once again.  The kebab shops had long since closed and the pubs were shut.  The beautiful sound of nature had only really been interrupted thrice by cars, but for a much longer time as I walked through the desolate streets.  It's a shame they have been driven out somewhat by the want of a cushy life.

Even so, I sit here now in bed, typing away to the sound of several birds behind me in the garden and the ever-funny Danny Wallace on iplayer.  I love our garden.  I love this part of town.  Junkies next door aside, it's a very nice place to live.  But I shall talk about that another time.  (Turns out that the time in the second paragraph is now wrong.  Huzzah).

As for now, I must rest my weary legs and close my tired eyes, 

for in three hours hence, I must once again arise

to work a ten-hour shift, finishing early in the night,

I'll hopefully sort my hours out, so that they might not be so rubbish.