Immobile

An atrociously dour, dark, dull, disgusting, drenching, dismal downpour of a day.  The very day that Blip Central has unjustifiably allowed me to inflict 2,000 selections of mind-numbing inanity on poor fellow Blippers.  The good news is that for the next 2,000 I’ve decided to get a grip, get a camera, buy some film, a tripod and a tent-sized black cape.  To date I have subcontracted all previous Blips but it’s all downhill now.

Whilst you were sleeping DB carried on modelling, Snapper carried on snapping, Meancoast was able to rise gradually and get some fresh air.

Whilst you were waking the Hoy Hills were awaiting the dawn but watching over every single one of you.

Whilst you were sleeping 8,247 redundant milkmen travelled on the same float which, having no mind of its own, followed the signs to the dairy of Destiny.

Whilst you were sleeping the red shoes worn by Moira Shearer were nestled inside myriad layers of satin.

Whilst you were sleeping Martin Scorsese had an uncomfortable night still not being able to let go of Scene 42 in Kundun.

Whilst you were slumbering the global community of Blippers pressed their shutter mechanisms and sighed.

Whilst you were sighing images of the Blip that got away flickered on the inside of eyelids of dreaming Blippers everywhere.

All this and more whilst you were Blipping.