Coincidence? I Think Note!

Since moving to Loughborough and not being within spitting distance of Jak’s stationers ( I have become a habituee of The Works where, once inside its atlas-strewn portals I head straight for the notebook section.  I generally use three sizes of notebook: A4 for general writing/diary stuff; A5 for poetry and novel notes and A6 for what I laughingly call my handbag (a handbag?)


which serves for writing down passing thoughts while I’m Out and About.

And I know this is going to sound odd but it does actually happen: that sometimes when I’m nearing the end of a notebook I will have certain thoughts.  I might be feeling discouraged (‘what’s the point of clogging up the place with yet another notebook?’) or on the other hand I might be feeling like flaunting myself: and when I sidle up to the notebook shelf in the works I can usually find something that fits the bill.  For example, this peacock notebook


came to me when I was feeling like displaying my prose talents to the world, and the ‘bike’ notebook


came when I was feeling like giving up.  And yesterday I needed a new A4 notebook and what did I find?  This one


which was very serendipitous as I’d been having thoughts along precisely those lines, to whit:

the average is the enemy of the good

the good is the enemy of the best,

but the perfect is the enemy of all.

There is no such thing as the perfect work, and perfectionism is the enemy of anyone trying to produce art.

Kirk out

PS I’m linking here to Brian’s article on a similar theme:


The Organ Grindr

Yesterday morning before I had even ingested an amount of tea sufficient to restore some sort of consciousness (it’s life, Jim, but not as we know it) OH informed me that there is now a ‘choral app.’  Not having any context to put this in I resorted to an irritable ‘what?’

‘A choral app,’ he said – repetition, in the mind of Mark, being equivalent to explanation.  He treats my queries rather in the manner of a Victorian colonialist who, when not understood by the natives, merely repeats himself more slowly and loudly.  I have long since learned that silence is the only response; sure enough, after only ten minutes of this he explained that an organ app is an app which tells you where your nearest choral evensong is.

‘It’s like Grindr,’ he explained.

‘Organ Grindr!’ I quipped.

Such puns are a staple of our daily conversation: I venture to assert that without them our married life would – ahem! – grind to a halt.  Another grind-related pun which surfaced quite early on in our joint existence arose out of the ubiquity of coffee-grounds.  OH and I are like Jack Spratt and his wife (name unrecorded) in that I only drink tea and he only imbibes coffee.  But whereas I dispose of my tea-leaves in a thoughtful and tidy manner (without reading them first) he merely gives the decanter a casual swill, leaving coffee grounds All Over The Place.  This being our honeymoon period, it took me a while to complain but when I did he instantly quipped ‘grounds for divorce!’ and so a tradition began.  Other standing jokes include such gems as ‘we were disgusted by the bus so we went by tandem’ (de gustibus non disputandem est) and many more which unfortunately I can’t remember (and neither can OH) because they arise out of the moment and are forgotten until the next moment.  When I asked if he could think of any, he suggested I should have written them down in a notebook.

‘I did!’ I said.  ‘I just don’t know where the notebooks are.’  And there’s the rub: generally speaking I write things down to forget them, not to remember them.  The whole point of writing is to get things out of your mind; words and ideas that would otherwise lodge there like awkward house-guests, never leaving and starting arguments with all the other guests.

So now you know the secret of writing.

Kirk out