Thrice daily I wind the clock...

Why?

When the hands aren't even old enough to tell the time.

(That's a stonking big fib...

the clock has been in my life for as long as I can remember!)

Perhaps it's because the mighty miller's hands have lost

their feel for the job...

they've gone all floppy.

Don't ask me why hoisting up the chain on the clock

resonates with me on a primeval level?

A cynics one word reply might be... 

'Lust?'

Transporting me back to my near recent past, when

on a cycling trip from Belgium to Holland we passed a working windmill.

Always one for a skive, I suggested we have a look.

In we went, to be met by this wonderful

huge, huger, humongerest

miller you ever did see.

Muscles rippling he showed us his equipment,

his grinding stones held me in a thrall.

Trying hard not to dribble, I endeavoured to separate the wheat from the 

chaff in my blood fuelled brain...

Questions, that's what will prolong the tour.

On and on I went , not knowing I had such an innate interest in the process.

Climbing back on the bike in a state of heightened excitement,

Ted kindly enquired

'You okay Lin, you look a bit shaky?'

'Cycling at my age is just no good for a girl!'

I replied as I climbed back on me bike.