A few weeks (or possibly months) ago Ewe said I should write about him reading my blog because it would be mind blowing, or something to similar effect. I thought it was a good idea.

I’m now thinking “how the hell do I write about Ewe reading this?”, as I have absolutely no idea as to how I can pull it off.

Hopefully I manage to stumble uppn some truth in this.

I’d like to believe that when he’s reading my poor writings, he likes to recline until he is in a position of comfort and gets so involved in what he reads that he treats it as a linguistic adventure. I’d also like to believe that he prints out everything I write and then binds it together so it feels more like a book.

Sometimes he reads this whilst talking about it to me whilst I’m writing a piece that he will read and talk to me about, influencing the trajectory of my fingers on the keyboard. My mind remains direct though.

I think he recites my writings in ancient Hebrew whilst skillfully playing chess against a Grandmaster whilst creating the greatest performance of a cash register ever seen on stage. The performance is so great that he feels it only fair to no longer be a cash register afterwards as it would dishearten any other actors attempting the same feat of being a cash register on stage.

As he thinks of things quite visually, I imagine he manages to quite easily visualise a lot of the things I write about. Scenes are graphically painted on the canvas of his mind and played out with liquid motion as the Sun melts into the seas of land and water, before rising out of it’s nightly prison to rend asunder the darkness that engulfs our beloved mother planet.

The last time I went food shopping with Ewe, he wanted to buy some sauce. I think it was a certain sweet chilli, but I can’t remember.

There was a bit of trouble finding it. Eventually confusion began to take over as it was not in the two sauce areas.

He began to scan the aisles closely, his eyes flickering back and forth. His breathing, footsteps and heart beat began to sound in unison, creating the rhythm that he found himself struggling against as he moved forward, unable to locate his prize. Sweat formed on his forehead and trickled down his face as his lips began to dry and crack. He found himself under great pressure to succeed where failure was certain.

Then we noticed an unexplored aisle and the sauce was there.

There was rejoicing. Then the supermarket exploded. We were already outside at that stage though.

We rode a marlin home. Its name was Harlan. Harlan the marlin.