Three heads are better?

I spent most of this week at the gate, a lonely task well suited to Cerberus the three headed dog guardian of the underworld. Three heads that’s what I need, on each for incoming and outgoing traffic and one to concentrate on my book. At the very least I’d always have someone to talk too, a notion I suggested to a co worker who had come to relieve me. He seemed to think three dicks would be better so you could fuck yourself, a notion which falls to pieces under the simplest of logic, but which set me thinking of that old truism; "be careful what you wish for", imagine if his was one of the other heads. Lets see if I can paint for you a picture of the gate, situated on the north east corner of the Bunning’s barn and surrounded on both sides by Edible Oils, an organic oil refinery it separates the car park from a semi roofed passageway where bricks and pavers are stored along with pallets of cement, lime and such. An arid setting where organic nature finds no foothold, where the the gatehouse, not unlike the Queens boofheaded guards one, provides some shelter till about midday when the sun begins to fill it from bottom to top. By this time a thin line of shade has appeared on the western side of the passageway to provide some relief from the sun, but here it is very exposed to the breeze come wind which arrives in the afternoon, stirring up the mounds of cement lime and sand that has leaked from the broken bags. This whole scene of concrete, pallet racks and iron railings is suitably decorated with streamers of shredded plastic wrap, that stuff that all pallets are nowadays wrapped in that takes a couple of billion years to disintegrate, like transparent flags of the anonymous corporations that produced them. Does this sound anything like the gates oh Hades? Maybe not but it certainly aint Heaven either. Now those of you crying oh poor Robert (as I know so many are) put away your tear rags. I’m tough and anyway the gate also has its advantages not the least of which being that I can sit as much as I want (Oh happy feet) I can also read, I finished the first two sections of Saturday’s paper today, the day of issue. First time I’ve done that since I stated work. There’s definitely not as much satisfaction in yesterdays papers. (that’s two I owe you Mick) That reminds me, from my gate (did I say my) looking down the passage to the timber yard where we have packs of so called treated pine sleepers, ironically packaged with the iconic name IRON WOOD emblazoned in foot high stencil I noticed a line of orderly customers waiting for our* cutting service and just for a split second I thought they were going to a Rolling Stones concert (or at very least a Faces one) (*I’ve got to be careful with these pronouns, there so revealing.) Anyway it’s a pleasant change of pace to sit and read and wear my Sydney Acubra all of which I’ve been told not to do but go on doing without the least of guilt or reprimand. In fact I think they’re beginning to like the way my hat makes me look like Dick Tracy or Leonard Teal in Homicide though he wore one of those narrow brimmed racing fraternity jobs. Bunnings’s not altogether unconscious of the properties of image. I never properly check receipts against the stock customers are taking but rather like HM Customs give them the "you’ve been lucky this time boy but maybe not next" look. I don’t care if I’d wanted to be a police man I’d have done it long ago and retired on the graft.
Now I’m going to give you all a break now and publish though I’m not looking forward to that OLD BLOGGER stuff I have to submit to.
Later Robert