A filthy night,
Of penetrating damp,
Ruins the chest,
Kills weak souls,
Bring back ice,
Cleansing frost,
Pristine killer,
Silent execution.
January 7, 2011
A filthy night
January 3, 2011
January
It’s January, 2011. The land is barren, mostly frozen, and there is no sun. The thermometer has barely risen above zero all winter and we still have a couple of miserable months to go. January, together with its soul mate February, is the least interesting month of the year.
There are only two sensible things to do. One is to hibernate and the other is to leave for warmer climes. I have absolutely no sense of loyalty to the British post Christmas winter. If it was a pretty, white, frozen landscape that might be different but it ain’t.
This afternoon the fire is lit which helps. Fire has an offsetting effect on January and February. Central heating doesn’t do it. You need flames and direct heat. You need crackle and flicker and colour. It’s all part of hibernation really – the falling asleep on the settee in front of the fire.
January is an austere month. A time of admonishment. It used to be of necessity, to conserve supplies until fresh growth. Nowadays the necessity comes from overindulgence during the mid winter holiday. The bleak mid winter holiday.
The austerity accompanies those who cannot flee. They are trapped. The notion of going somewhere warm for the remainder of the winter seems to clash with the idea that belts need tightening and livers restoring. So most of us tighten and restore and bend our heads to the wind glancing up only occasionally to keep our bearings.
Thank goodness for the fire.
January 1, 2011
I sipped at my beer
I sipped at my beer and listened to Santana in the corner of the room. Its part of the quality of life, the escapist answer. My mind floated, careless. Who needs yoga? Sometimes I shut my eyes and just listened. It’s not often I afford myself the luxury. Bongos beat, guitar slid. In the darkness I was in Southern California. Palm trees lost in a narcotic haze, convertibles at the beach, crash of Pacific rollers twenty four hours a day, driftwood bonfire, beer and Jack, blondes and bandanas. I ran my hands through my hair, unfashionably short. My head tilted back and I slept, waking now and then when the music changed its occasional mood. A boy fetched me another. Endless vacation. Endless love. Smell of the night. Laughter beyond the orange grove. Chink of glass. Barefoot children run freely.
December 31, 2010
autopilot east
That Friday I left the office early and set the autopilot for East and home. It was New Year’s Eve and most people were getting into the zone. Party time. The radio played loud music as I drove through the Lincolnshire countryside. The light was disappearing fast and with the mists rising up from the fields the whole place looked like a movie set.
When I got home there was a nerf war going on upstairs. It was a no-go zone if you were over 13 years old. Anne fixed me a cup of tea and I sat down to check my twitter updates. Nobody seemed interested in the nerf war. If it had been another French Revolution it would have been different. Or maybe not (shrugs shoulders)!
I reckoned I had another 15 minutes of typing before it would be time to hit the Morning Star for early doors. I wouldn’t be there long. Just enough time to sink a few beers and then collect the take away curry from Poppadom Express on Monks Road.
We don’t do a big New Years Eve in our house. I think deep down Anne would like to but I can’t take the Auld Lang Syne false bonhomie. Call me a miserable bastard. I don’t mind kissing all the girls though but I can do that at home – guaranteed 🙂
I took the curry order off the kids. Two chicken kormas, two chicken tikka massalas and whatever I wanted. Way back I used to be a vindaloo man or at least madras but I got out of the habit when I stopped going out on the town after rugby on a Saturday. That’s civilisation for you I guess.
I like this clear headed time sat at my laptop. I won’t be productive after the pub. Ernest Hemingway used to drink six bottles of red wine whilst writing but it doesn’t work like that for me. It is completely dark now.
December 28, 2010
fireside still life
As the perpetual winter raged outside, life indoors by the fire continued in a very relaxed and comfortable manner. No need to go anywhere other than to fetch another load of fuel from behind the back door and to make the occasional pot of tea. Every now and again he would drop off to sleep, waking up after a short while to continue with his book. There was no other world.
December 26, 2010
year end
The crisp,
quiet ending to a year
that reached crescendo,
celebrated not lamented,
the flickering fire,
log fed, crackles,
fat bellies sprawl
and nothing moves,
a cold induced lock-down
pending new hope.
December 25, 2010
What do you get a mother for Christmas?
What do you get a mother for Christmas? Someone who has room for no more gadgets, whose larder is stocked full for the winter and who has filled most of the wardrobes in their five bedroom house for two with the contents of several clothes shops. Could I give her youth and vitality? No despite her years she has youth aplenty. Love she dispenses freely without strings. She can have some of this back though it isn’t part of the contract. Praises she has had more of over the years than she could shake her stick at, if she had a stick, and friendship comes naturally. She already shared with me her attitude to life.
All I can think of is a pair of socks and a big hug and thank you for being my mam.
December 19, 2010
Hairdo conversations
Single sided hairdo telephone conversation heard on a train:
Helen has gone back to a bob with a fringe – she’s really blonde
I’m growing mine back
You do look young but I don’t think that is a bad thing.
I think you should go back to your redhead – the desperate housewives redhead.
I love it when it is like that.
It makes me feel more feminine when it is longer
December 18, 2010
random favourite tweets
Chinks in the curtain of the twittershpere:
Some discoveries in woeful depths of knicker drawer – chequebook, Camping & Caravanning Club card. But they won’t fill a stocking
I need the wrapping magic fairies to come visit me!
sounds fun, sorry I could not make it – maybe next year
In other news, I’m heading back to the shire on Saturday. I plan to do a great deal of sleeping.
On Brek show this am: Mablethorpe town council have approached govt to see if they can have Ark Royal when RN’s finished with it. Honestly!
will it fit on the boating lake?:)
Oh no. Lucy’s Lunchbox in #Farnham closed. Scribbled note with no further explanation. No sign of life. Permanent?
Snow!
As I was asleep in bed,
The little snow fairies came,
They danced in the air,
Bringing snowflakes falling everywhere.
I woke up next morning and guess what I saw,
What the little snow fairies had made,
On the way to the pool (to train of course),
My dad we’re not going to get there,
How disappointed I was but I still got to play in the snow.
So if you look out your window,
And see a land of white,
You’ll know that the snow fairies came.
December 14, 2010
California here I come
Rarely can
an individual have
chosen so wisely in
heading beyond the extremities of the
english weather;
leaving behind a
build up of snow and
rather slippery ice
is what some might term
savvy
though I might have
overused the
wisdom bit, to fit.
for Rachel
December 12, 2010
After the snow
The worst has arrived.
Not the drifting, car-swallowing, pristine flurrying whiteness
of the Christmas card
nor the cold cosy backdrop to dim lanterned carollers,
woolly scarves and cheeks aglow.
Instead
ugly ice melt pavement rinks,
reappearing dirty greenery,
pitiful frozen survivors
and a long way to go ‘til spring.