It’s been a period of many small events, none of any great significance, ending with the feeling that I may be retired but I’m still awfully busy. Of course it may be that the business factor expands to fill the available time. Probably is, really.
Since quitting regular journal updating, and regular writing, I’ve been doing my best to adjust. Can’t claim to have done a very good job of it but things are beginning to settle down.
Most days, if you were a fly on my wall, you’d see the routine of a nice, quietly retired old duffer, rising early of a morning, reading the news over my first couple of coffees, waiting for the time to be right to go up and give myself a good scrubby shower, shave and get dressed in clean linen ready for what the day may bring. Sometimes it brings a lot, sometimes not so much, but it’s a rare day when nothing happens at all.
I ought to write about it more frequently, I suppose, if only for the sake of the record. Does no harm now and again to have nothing more significant to think about than the right way to prune the roses.
Today, I’m very much more than usually whacked. On Saturday I drove over to Somerset to pick Graham up after a week of serving alcohol to the trannies and then doing the bar for a big wedding. That trip was fine; I’d slept well, and arrived tired but feeling good. A night on a holiday camp bed wiped that out, however, and the return trip yesterday was a bit of a burden, taking five hours instead of the more usual four, and leaving me totally exhausted. Hey ho. It was still good to see a bit of Somerset again. Nice place, but I wouldn’t want to live there.
I did get to see my first leaf fall of the season, though, and was much uplifted by it. People ask me to take pictures, and show them, but I find myself disinclined to the use of the camera these days. No matter how proficient the photographer, and how effective the camera there is, to me, much about my world that is un-photographable and the results are seldom satisfying. A quick sketch with pen and wash says so much more to me these days.
I’m still struggling with the painting, spending far more time thinking about it than doing it. And that is not the way to rebuild my skills. It’s coming, slowly, and I’m not too far away from being able to show my results.
I did buy myself a new paintbox, though–a beautifully made Jullian “small”, made in France and smelling of lovely fresh French timber. It has retaining bars inside the lid to hold a canvas board of up to 12 by 10 inches so that the box may be used as a pochade, held on the lap for outdoors oil sketching. Haven’t done that for many years and hope to do so just so soon as I can find a comfortable folding chair. It’ll need to be a strong and sturdy one to accommodate my portly frame.
I have had a bit of a problem adjusting to the news from the doctor that my heart is back to full health. The weaning from the medication hasn’t been too difficult, and I do feel better for it, but the psychological switch from thinking of myself as an invalid is not so easy. Fortunately the arthritic joint pain discourages me from doing too much too soon on the physical side, so I can ease into my new status little by little.
We had a bit of a drama with a new supplier of window blinds, being sent two sets of venetians in the wrong colour. It was settled amicably, though, and they sent replacements in pretty short order. Now all our windows are clad properly and to our own style, putting the finishing touches to all Graham’s hard work.
The back garden, though cleared, still needs a full makeover but we’re going to leave that over until next year. I’d like to have it all transformed into a multi-level deck and am working slowly to bring Graham round to my way of thinking without feeling that he’s been manipulated. I don’t think there’s any such thing as a ‘low-maintenance’ garden, but decking and container gardening is about as close as you can get without going so far as to pave over the whole lot. We shall see.
It’s not clear just now as to the likelihood of Graham doing any more bar-keeping at the holiday camp this year but he’s toying with the idea of doing a full season again next year. I’m fairly equable at the prospect, knowing he’ll have comfortable accommodation and that I’ll be welcome to spend as much time as I want with him. I’ll have to come home for a few days at least once a month to air the house and do laundry but the car is more than capable of the work, and so am I providing I get a proper night’s sleep before each trip.
Today, though, my bones are weary, still imprinted with the stress and strain of a holiday camp bed. Could be worse.
