In No Particular Order

For more than half a century, my life has been a series of nonsensical happenings. They have miraculously merged into one gigantic splodge. Bad, contemporary art, springs to mind. Why would I wish this book to reflect that? More madness, I suppose. Perhaps because it’s a strange concoction of silly but sometimes sad accounts. You are, of course, the better judge. No page survives more, or less, than one hundred words. Precision was needed somewhere. Even this is a drabble. Set out, in no particular order, a feast for flickers. Serious readers, Just don’t tell anyone.