Here's the thing. We don't write letters or consign our thoughts longhand in spiral-bound journals anymore, or at least I don't, and if my grandchildren are ever interested in what made me tick, they'd never know, and for reasons entirely to do with conceit, I want them to. Goodness knows how long I'll keep this nonsense up, but I've persevered for far longer than I anticipated, so the chances are I shall meander on for a while .
My daughter recently recorded her day on her blog, and I thought, "What an excellent idea" So I am about to do the same. I shall call it a "Wordshot" because a) I like ascribing new meanings to old words and q) it sounds sexier than 'diary entry.' It will be a regular feature, unless I forget. So here goes:
WordShot Sunday 12th October 2014
8:00am Alarm
I lreally enjoy those signs that say, "Warning This Door Is Alarmed", don't you? I love the thought of doors with feelings. I think there may have been a precedent with the lift in 'The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy' but I don't recall how that one felt, and am too idle to check it out. Anyway, I want to go up to the door and say, "I'm so sorry you're experiencing negative emotions associated with the anticipation of attack. Is there any thing I can do to make you feel better?" I don't of course, that would be silly. But I do carry stickers around with me that read, "This door is feeling a little under the weather." Keep your eyes peeled, you might spot one.
I time things to the minute. My friend Chris is picking me up today: at 8:45. So I'm in the bath, 8:40 and there's a knock at the door. Bugger. Chris later reports to Margareta, who was the other half of the lift to church, that the towel didn't cover all it should, but I think she was exaggerating for dramatic effect. "I will be ready at 8:45 Chris," I say, and to her amazement, I am.
Church is always uplifting. I have given up on the politics, and indeed, almost, on God, but nevertheless, this is my weekly dose of the numinous, which I think we should all have in our lives, and church is the least trouble (for me, anyway) and the cheapest source. I love doing the flowers, and singing the hymns. Father Tom from The Mission Field, an Irish ex-barman, gave the appeal on behalf of The Columbians, who are the sort of missionaries who build schools and tell people God loves them. I approve to the extent of slipping Fr Tom a fiver.
I enjoy time with Abigail who has to have a minder still, being only three. " I want to dance! "She shouts (Abs always shouts, it's her thing,) so her father plays another verse of the last hymn and she throws herself around with great enthusiasm, to the delight of those of us who haven't been able to do so for decades.
10:30
Chris and I have a long chat in the car. We exclaim at the awful shade of pink my house has been painted by a well-meaning but possibly colourblind workman. "He was aiming for terracota" I say by way of an explanation. "Here's irony," I say, about to make reference to my work with street people, "There's a good chance I'm going to be homeless in the next few months!" I was being overly-dramatic , because it was my turn: Ray and I have three homes we could land on if necessary. ( Seriously, kids!) We'd never have a problem getting another tenancy either, but this cottage has been my home for eighteen years now, and throwing away the stuff we'd have to grt rid of in order to move, would be a wrench. A remarkable thing happens. Chris immediately launches into the bare bones of a plan to buy a house for us to rent! I am amazed and deeply touched.
11:00 - 1300
Cooking. Ray's been away a lot this week couriering ( if that's a word) for Skibbly, our son-in-law Darren's film production company. He has landed his dream job, travelling around Europe collecting the master-tapes for UEFA matches. Admittedly, he doesn't get ro see to much of Stockholm or Helsinki, but he does get to see the footie. The point of this aside, is to explain why all the vegetables have to be converted into dishes today, before they go off, Ray not having been around to eat them! Which reminds me, Oh My God, the mushroom casserole is still going in the slow- cooker! Back in a minute.
Phew! Ray turned it off before going to bed. It looks OK but smells like a fen.
Afternoon Nap. An essential part of a sexagenarian regime.
15:00
The wanderer returns with tales of a 1-1draw. I learn what the Fins call themselves, and what the Greeks call them too. No translation, fortunately, especially of the latter
Dinner. Chicken roasted in the clay oven (fabulous!) and plates piled high with assorted vegetables.
1700: Till Later
Playing solitaire on this iPad, counting my calories on MyFitnessPal, going on Edex to find out my score for Assignment Two for "The Art Of Poetry" Course - 11/12 YES!!!
I had to compare and contrast Emily Dickinson's " Because I could not stop for death.. " with another poem. I spent DAYS trying to find a second poem, then, in desperation, used one of my own. This is very naughty, but because I could do it without getting caught, I did. Well, I say, in an attempt at a justification for my behaviour, there is no rule that says I COULDN'T.
20:00 Bed. Body clock still scewed by early- morning wake-up calls for European flights.
22:00 Wide awake. Dr Who in the bath (Bless you, ipad). Thinks: What can I do now, given that I'm not sleepy?
Blog. Goodnight. Pink House Follows.
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