journal of a writing man

Thursday January 31, 2008

I am so relieved to see the last of January this year even if it is going out with a bit of a blast, cold, wet, and windy, leaving us with the kind of day best kept outdoors.  This is a day when you should stay home, butter crumpets, and spread the magic carpet in front of the fire ready for a fantastic voyage.

Tomorrow they’re talking up a snowstorm, not here, particularly, but in the North and possibly spreading down on Arctic winds. I’m not sure I believe them but, just in case, I shall shop for three days when I go out today. I don’t do walking on snow if I can possibly avoid it.

I don’t care what they say.  They may prate all they wish, they can’t bring January back, not for another twelve months, they can’t. February may not be entirely wonderful as months go, but it’s closer to Spring than bloody January.

Wednesday January 30, 2008

It’s supposed to be turning bitter cold today. Not much sign of it so far, just blue skies and lots of sunshine.  Power in the sunshine, too.

I went out into the garden in short sleeves just now, to check and, sure enough, it’s mild and pleasant out there, too.

But, in my study, by the window, the sun pours in, my spirits soar, and I get a full frontal attack of old man sitting in the sun syndrome.

Nothing wrong with that.

The main bedroom is now painted and waits for the next burst of hanging curtains and pictures, applying basic room dressings, and then it’s all down to going round the house and gardens, fixing this, tidying that, until the job is done.  We’ll be ready to call agents by the end of February.

All my domestic filing and paperwork is up to date, has been for some time.  All bills paid with the exception of British Gas, and even they have at last set up an account so that we can sell and move.

Graham’s settling down again after his encounter yesterday.  Somewhere around his second glass of wine last night he adopted a grim visage–he can do an awfully good grim visage–and declared his determination that he’ll not be bested.  Soon as he’s finished his tasks here he’ll go out and grab a job, any job, just to pay bills and sever the chord between him and the holiday camp.

But that’s all tomorrow, and yesterday. Today, the sun is shining in my window and the world is singing along with me.

“What is that strange noise?” he asked.

“What noise?”

“The one you were making just now.”

“Oh. Just me singing. Take no notice.”

“I’ll try.  Keep the volume down a bit, willya?”

Tuesday January 29, 2008

Up with the lark this morning to put out trash and to take Graham over to the holiday camp for a meeting with his employers.  I waited in the caravan, dozing away to Shakespeare in Love.  We’d planned to go on to Taunton for coffee and lunch but, when he’d finished, he was about done in and wanted nothing more than to come home.

It was one of those un-minuted meetings I used heartily to despise and, so soon as I became senior enough, to refuse.  With no written record and a two-on-one structure, the one in the minority can be claimed to have agreed to anything.  Graham wasn’t sure what he’d agreed to.

“I’ll tell you what I used to do in these circumstances,” I said. “If it’s any use to you?”

“Go on, then.”

“I used to write a short Memorandum of Understanding to all attendees, opening with the statement: ‘This is my understanding of what was agreed at our meeting today. Please let me know in writing if you wish to add anything to the record.’  Always worked for me.”

There was a slight pause. Then:  “You know those marbles you’re always looking for because you think they’ve gone missing?”

“Yeah?”

“They haven’t.”

Monday January 28, 2008

Graham has his teeth well and truly into the master bedroom project now, applying coats of paint one after another with the aid of grim determination and a good paintbrush. While waiting for one coat to dry he dashes to and from the store cupboard with pictures and other folderols, trying them out, aiming to create a stunning original image for the minimum of expense.

Like, no expense at all.  In cash terms I doubt we’re going to make much on this house.  There’s a general down-turn in the market.  The upside is that the down-turn seems to be less severe here than in most of our target areas.

Graham is keeping the list close to his chest, balancing his needs against mine and Dolly’s.  I’m glad to be relieved of that particular burden and, while I still have my power of veto, I’ve made it clear that I’ll live anywhere that makes us all happy.

I’ve told him, though, that I don’t think I can wait for too much longer.

“You watch it, mate, or I’ll decide for you,” I said, almost completely in jest.

“Really?  Where would you take us all, then?”

“I have a fancy for a cliff top house in Westest Wales. Clean air. View of the sea.”

“Fair enough.”

“I was joking!” I said, terrified that I might be taken at my word.

“Be careful what you wish for.”

“Be especially careful on your choice of cliché.”

“Why’s that, then?”

“I’ve been known to stamp on the pesky things for the joy of hearing them crunch.”

“Speaking of the joy of crunch, is it Buffy time yet?”

Sunday January 27, 2008

Here I was, fingers poised, all ready to dash off some insightful fragments of the day…

And Graham decided to make honeyed toast.  The aroma of toast and honey is floating up the stairs and driving me quite desperate with an irresistible craving for crisp, crunchy…

Oh well.  You know the rest.

 Blame him.