I’m thinking of doing a song about writers, like Monty Python did about philosophers. You know, ‘Marcel Proust/ got a tremendous boost/when his memories were published and his thoughts came home to roost…’
Mm. That’s just off the top of my head, you understand. I’ll keep you posted.
Delayed visit from a relative this morning: they were supposed to come on Weds and forgot. Bloody annoying especially as they were coming for lunch. I’m afraid I don’t have many thoughts in my head this morning so you won’t be getting the usual erudite, urbane and polished post from me. Ah well, I can’t be scintillating every day… Yesterday was fairly busy: I picked blackberries and made a crumble (if you’ve got the time to go out, it’s an excellent year for blackberries this year – right now they are bursting with juice) then I went into town and bought veg as well as renewing my membership of the Little Theatre. I am hoping to go and see ‘Calendar Girls’ there next month – I wanted to audition for this but missed the dates somehow. I am signed up for the workshops, however. Then back and pausing only to reconfigure the parameters of time and space – oh, all right then, to help Holly with a job application * I girt my loins and strode into the den of the big black lawnmower to mow the church lawn.
Why did I volunteer for this? It all seemed so easy on paper. But in reality the Lawnmower is a big black, cantankerous and petrol-driven beast which lives in a garage on Westcotes Drive. Trying to use it is like wrestling with a Dalek: in the end, having had a tutorial on Sunday initiating me into its mysteries, I managed to start it, only to realise that I would promptly have to let go of the dead man’s handle in order to shut the garage door. I did so: the engine just as promptly died. After only a dozen attempts I got it started again and set off at a smart pace, dragging me down the road to the church garden before I could wrestle the lever forwards to slow it down. Then finally! lawnmower makes contact with grass. Up and down I went, starting to feel slightly smug although turning was problematic as I couldn’t slow it down enough (my aching shoulders today testify to the struggle) – then I headed for the lawn at the back. At this point the beast began to slow and become sluggish and to emit a smell of oil. I decided that maybe the blades were becoming clogged – though I now think I shouldn’t have been holding for dear life onto the clutch lever. Why are some machines so bloody complicated? Anyway, at that point it began to rain, and – joy! – it is raining now, so I shall give it up for this week.
And it is raining still. I must return the key.
Kirk out
*just to earn some dosh – she’s not leaving college
Sarada Gray 