10 July 2010

Hello sunshine, and hello to you, readership. It's just the most darling day outside and here I sit in the sun, in the lounge, having dissembled laptop from all its various appliances that it's linked too, in order to write you a note. It's actually so nice outside, that a little tear forms in the corner of the eye...

Or perhaps I should put that down to the Iron and Wine that I'm listening to. Or to the couple of pints of Guinness that I've put away here by myself. The effect of them is ever so much more potent because there are no carbohydrates in the house. Who needs carbohydration? I, for one, assuredly do not.

And how have I been making the most of this divine weather? Why, by accomplishing chores, of course. Oh, cleaning products, how I've missed you - it's been too long! Not to mention the fact that the house was a sty. An absolute sty... We should be ashamed...

But, we're not. With such a lovely summer, how could we stay at home and clean? If cleanliness is next to godliness, then I am a little demon. No, WAS a little demon. Now, the house is so clean, I might as well sprout some feathered wings. Just like Nights at the Circus. Oh, that was a good book. You haven't read it? Criminal.

Recent events could be summed up in a word... wine. Nicholas and I have been hosting a familial house guest and seem to be going to great lengths to demonstrate how insouciant we can be about sleep and sobriety. But, we're young, no?

No. Probably not. But I was asked for ID at Waitrose today. I could be seventeen? Again, probably not. The nice looking young man behind me let out a little laugh of surprise when the assistant asked me for proof of my elderliness. Up turns to down so thick and fast, it's hard to stay on an even keel sometimes.

Back at the house, it's an afternoon of The Guardian and steak and my aforemtnioned "Saturday playlist". And yes, that's right - I bought meat. Following which, I cooked it and I ate it. Depending on your definition of normalcy, I might be returning to a sense of it.

...

I've just taken a pause to put on a new load of washing and lost my train. More of a fog, than a train, upon reflection. Like a swamp. Cixous, one of the great proponents of French thought in the last century, discussed the feminine in terms of swamps as a contrasting type to the patriarchal phallus. I'm quite the fan of her writing. Have you read her?

This week saw the sale of my Latitude tickets. It was emotional. I guess that, apart from the obvious loss of the opportunity to see B & S and enjoy the festival atmosphere, it was a reminder of another loss that I've had of late and brought it back into the forefront of my mind. I had nice little plan set out for the rest of my days and it was quite thrown asunder, wouldn't you agree?

No doubt for the best. For everyone.

I sold my tickets at a little profit (capitalising like a capitalist) to a girl who works for an artist in Angel (Boheminising like a bohemian). She had a beautiful gap-tooth smile.

Tomorrow, I'm going to a "Hog Roast" at Jenny's house. She's one of the lawyers on our team. Her invite was an apology for roasting a pig on a spit and a wish that we would join her to eat it anyway. Her man is a chef down in the Mayfair-ish parts of town and therefore I expect to be dazzled by the pig roasting efforts.

When I read over the last paragraph, I feel like a wild animal.

I've bought some lemon sole for dinner. With the house to myself, I'm being quite the homebody and finally indulging in some home-cooked food. It's disconcerting and because it's out of recent character and that makes it all the more enjoyable and new.

Lemon sole? It's not such an odd choice. It's that Stephen was telling me the other day how he'd speared one out on the East Coast which is a rare event in the North Island. The poor creature strayed so far from his home in the south, then was speared senseless by some great hunter-gatherer-type before heinous crimes of cookery were inflicted upon it in Stephen's new oven which he doesn't know how to use. The horror! On the contrary, my little feast was packaged up nicely after being caught carefully in accordance with good practice fishing and I will be wrapping it up in some tinfoil with lemon, rapeseed oil and capers and quietly baking it to perfection.

Again, regardless of the civility of my approach, I feel like a wild animal.

Do you remember my limerick about cricket? The review section of the Guardian is a veritable smorgasbord of sport poetry. How awful! I feel sorry for Duffy, myself. She may be the Laureate, but the trade-off is quite extreme, surely. Well, I would draw your attention to one of my early posts, if you haven't read it. Or perhaps, you could revisit it on account of the fact that it is Mr Mabey's favourite poem, which is not high praise, but it makes me feel warmish... no, probably just tepid. My heart is a tepidarium as a result of his praise.

Would you like some more verse? Well, I've been remiss. I can't even say that the painting is coming along. The undercoat is bone dry and I've done naught but look at it. I think it's time for another hobby anyway. Someone was suggesting kickboxing? Too uncouth! I welcome suggestions. My only criterion is that you make sure that it's something that I can leave half finished...