When you’ve had a compulsion to write for most of your adult life it comes as a shock when you wake up one day and find it’s gone. A shock somewhere between bereavement and the discovery that you’re out of ice-cream. Which covers most bases when you come to think about it.
At first, I sat in a stuporous daze for a while. Then the daze went away, leaving me with just the stupor. It was quite pleasant, really. I sat in my chair, stirring myself now and again to smear paint on canvas only to scrape it off again. That poor canvas has been about six different pictures now, and is feeling rather raggety. Can’t throw it away, though. I’m far too stingy to throw away a good pre-stretched and primed cotton canvas. Perhaps next time the picture will stick and I’ll be able to stand it in a corner and start over on a new one.
Graham has been more productive, painting and carpeting two bedrooms and re-hashing his study. The upstairs is more or less finished now and he’s begun muttering about a kitchen make-over.
The weather turned nasty mid-July, and we’ve had more rain than seems reasonable. Just now it’s turned into mostly bright white cloudy days, with bursts of sunshine and the occasional light shower.
We’ve not been out much, which is bad. I have however been promised a day trip to New Quay for a fish-and-chip lunch on my birthday, and that is good.
Still no movement on the shed/workshop. We’ve ventured out a couple of times to tour round local shed manufacturing places, only to drive home with Graham muttering about shoddy craftsmanship and flimsy construction. He’s beginning to talk in terms of designing and building his own, aiming to have it done before Christmas. Which will free the garage up for the car, and that’ll be good, too.
Several times one or two of the local stray cats have come to sit in the garden for a while, looking hopeful. The guy next door feeds them. Me, I glare at them and am inclined to tell them in no uncertain terms that there is no vacancy. I’m getting to be impatient with the well-meaning folks who tell me we should get another cat. Or even a little dog. I don’t want any more animals about the place. I’ve felt myself to be rather mean on this one. Mean, but determined. I’ve stepped up my contribution to the Cat’s Protection League to keep my conscience clear.
But, all in all, it’s been sitting quietly in my office chair, idly watching old TV shows on the computer. It’s been fun, but I’ve developed a fearsome case of what some doctors call ‘armchair leg’ so I am trying to get myself back to walking several times a day, attempting to get the old lymphatics pumping again. It’s either that or a thrice-weekly visit to the clinic to have the darned lazy limb bandaged up by the nurse. I don’t think I’m quite ready for that.
Today, to Sainsbury’s for a routine Monday shop, constructing the week’s menus as we walked round the aisles. It’s all rather routine, I’m afraid, with the same dishes coming up on a roughly fortnightly round. Graham’s become rather cautious on the food front of late, preferring to stick with what he knows. Suits me.
The front grass has been improving steadily, getting a light cut two or three times a week, and is beginning to turn over into being a lawn. Come the autumn we’ll give it a good dressing of Autumn Top Lawn, which will banish the remains of the clover and feed the grass so it over-winters in good form. Graham preens himself each time one of the neighbours compliments him on it, saying that it’s the greenest patch for miles around. They’re not wrong there.
Now it’s time to get our evening meal put together. Lasagne with garlic bread and Caesar Salad, fresh strawberries for dessert. And Stargate SG1 on the telly.
Funny old life, ain’t it?
