Monthly Archives: February 2010

It’s been snowing practically all day.  Not the kind of snow that settles–it seemed to lose heart, and integrity, and melt into tiny rain drops just a few inches before it touched the ground.  If you can catch the angle and the light just right there’s an almost visible transition zone above and clinging to the paved surfaces, a place where snow dies and becomes no more than a damp, chilly rain just before hitting the ground.

Or you could call it sleet, if you’d rather.

“So what will you do today?” Graham asked when I got up, late, dressed, and sat down at the kitchen table to enjoy my early morning espresso.

“Sit in the window and watch the snow.”

“Will that be a long job?”

“Oh, difficult to say.  I’d like to be the first to see it begin to settle.”

“That’s nice.”

It was a long, long time before I decided that it wasn’t going to settle.  I shook myself and popped out into the hallway to call up the stairs:

“Beverage?”

“Tea, please.”

And so we both had a nice cup of tea.

To Swansea, for DIY and grocery provisions.  Graham, sawing a length of pre-formed plaster coving into two convenient lengths in the car park at Wickes so’s the resulting pieces would fit in the car.  Over-hasty scampi and chips in the coffee shop at Sainsbury’s–no longer to be recommended.  Wine and beer and cat litter featuring largest in the shopping trolley and our favourite checkout lady exchanging “I want it to be Summer” feelings with me.

And then, home.

“It’s good to be back,” I said.  “Warm and comforting.”

“Yup.  Wish the kitchen didn’t smell of curry so much, though.”

“If the faint remnants of curry smell is the worst thing in our lives then we’re not doing too bad.”

“That’s true.”

It’s curry night, and Graham will be cooking.  I know I’ve asked him at least twice what type of curry it’ll be but I’ve forgotten the answer.  Again.  Happens rather a lot, does that, but it doesn’t really matter.  It’ll be delicious, whatever, and I may even remember what it’s called after I’ve eaten it.

For the most part it’s been a lovely sunny day, not too cold, and not threatening to get cold.  The sky has been a rolling diorama of cloudscapes.  You know, galleons under full sail, flocks of sheep… the clichés go on and on.  Down here in our little valley we are sheltered from both sunrises and sunsets, which does mean at least that I’m not tempted to describe them.  There are only so many words to describe the sun setting.  It’s up in the sky and then… it’s not.  Really and truly, unless you’re into ecstasy, there’s nothing more to be said about it.

Graham says that when I’m 92 years old he’ll let me take up smoking again.  Until then he says I’d be best advised to forget about it.

After a long pause, I said:  “OK.  It’s a deal.”

“What is?”

“You mean you’ve forgotten what you just said?”

“So?”

“Ah well.  Who needs to remember an unseen sunset anyway?”

“Sometimes I worry about you.”

It seems that Britain is gripped just now, in a hushed silence, watching Eastenders to see who killed Archie someone-or-other.  Those not interested have been banished to the kitchen with strict instructions to keep quiet and make no interruptions.

I do suspect the telephone networks have been switched off, too.  Heaven help us if Mr Obama wants to speak to our dear Gordon just now, to warn him that the end of the world is nigh.  As a nation, we don’t care.  Just so long as it doesn’t happen before we find out who killed Archie.

Except that here in the little bungalow under the pines, disinterest reigns.  We don’t do soaps, not since Bette left the Rovers and the secret of Michelle’s cushion was revealed.

So, I’ve flicked round the TV channels twice.  It looks as if all the non-Eastenders channels have given up the ghost and have selected the oldest of their junk repeats and the least interesting of their documentary offerings.  They seem to have adopted the principle of giving in gracefully.

I’ve settled on a BBC Four docu-drama, purporting to tell all about Tchaikovsky’s women.  Not an overly long programme, then.