journal of a writing man

Sunday March 16, 2008

For one tantalizing moment the sky looked as though it might clear yesterday, developing a distinctly bright hole in the cloud layer that almost turned blue and gold.

And then it changed its mind and went back to grizzling into its cloudy beard once more.

Today it looks a though we’re in for much of the same.

At least it’s calm. Damp, but calm.  Such melancholy as there is in it is a nice melancholy, like a quiet English afternoon tea with soft scones and limp fish paste sandwiches. 

I turned to my poetry books and pulled down Stevie Smith.  Stevie had a nicely accurate taste for English melancholy, shown beautifully in this extract from Thoughts about the Person from Porlock:

I long for the Person from Porlock
To bring my thoughts to an end,
I am becoming impatient to see him
I think of him as a friend,

Often I look out of the window
Often I run to the gate
I think, He will come this evening,
I think it is rather late.

I am hungry to be interrupted
For ever and ever amen
O Person from Porlock come quickly
And bring my thoughts to an end.

Do you know, I could really do with a fish paste sandwich just now.  I’m positive I have a small jar of Shipham’s pilchard and tomato in the fridge, unopened, waiting on a moment of English melancholy.