journal of a writing man

Monday May 5, 2008

Rather busy here today what with one thing and another, not least of them returning Graham to the holiday camp and delivering him to his fate as barman to the trannies. I doubt I’ll be able to make a proper entry.

Until tomorrow, take care…

I’ve been romping through the journal files for May 2005, and have just started out on June.  Can’t for the life of me find a reason for my sudden burst of industry.  Ho hum.  Here are the clickable thumbs for June 2005:

Sunday May 4, 2008

So.  London has a new mayor.  The Labour Party is shaken to its roots.  The Conservative Party is shocked rigid with the realization that it’s rather liable to be back in power in a couple of years and will need to work out how it’s going to put our money where its mouth is. And, finally, we have a Prime Minister who’s tired and weary, over-stretched and out of ideas.  Even if he had some good ideas, no-one would believe him.

I’ll not bore you with the fiasco of the English and Welsh local elections that have run from last Thursday.  Anyone in Britain who doesn’t know the story already wouldn’t understand my version, and my friends in other countries have better things to do than worry about our politics, though I suspect they’d fully understand my feeling that the only good thing about our current state is that it’s shoved Obama and Clinton out of the headlines.  Makes a nice change, does that.

“Tell you what,” I said while we were driving home yesterday evening.

“What’s that, then?”

“I think the time may have come for us to emigrate.”

“Where?”

“Oh, you’ll have to choose that.  Just so long as it’s in the EU.”

“How’s about Holland?”

“Holland is cool.  Desperately difficult language to learn, though.”

“Ah.  I shall think on.”

Don’t take us too seriously.  Please don’t take us too seriously.  We’re not really likely to emigrate, not unless we win a Lottery Jackpot, that is.  We don’t have the nerve.  I wouldn’t mind betting that we’ll look back on this in five or so years and wish that we had, though.

Hey ho.  Graham’s home until tomorrow.  He’s not sure if he’ll be able to take another little break while the trannies are there so it might be Monday next week before he returns.  Dolly and I shall entertain ourselves best we can until then.

I picked up an old water-colour paint box, sighed, wrapped it up in its travel bag, and put it back in the cupboard.  You never know with me but although I seem to be heading for a painterly period, it’s on a slow train, with many hazards on the line.

My travelling paint box

Saturday May 3, 2008

Yesterday to West Quantoxhead in the evening to deliver Graham for the first couple of days of trannie week. He’ll kick the thing into action and then come home again tomorrow for a break before things get too hectic.

I started sipping my wine quite early, without too much haste but with great enjoyment and, in the absence of anything to see on TV, pitched into the April 2005 journal entries, finishing this morning. I’m not doing so well on the ‘a month per day’ thing but I’m happy enough with my progress. I’ll start on May 2005 later today, like as not, and judging by the thumbnail pictures, it’s going to be quite interesting, really:

And that about wraps things up again. Wine, pictures, and lazy hazy thoughts about my next project. Perhaps a little wistfulness, too.

Friday May 2, 2008

It transpired that our latest viewers couldn’t see themselves living in our house after all.  Sad for us, but the speed and dedication of the new agent’s follow-up was encouraging after the last lot.

So our first point of call was to the office of the ex-agent, to pick up the paper copy of the Home Information Pack they’d promised to mail to us two weeks back.  While there they promised to email me a copy, too, so’s I could more easily pass it on to our present agent.

“I shall not hold my breath waiting for that to happen,” I said to Graham when we’d got out of the office and beyond earshot of the two poor sad souls in attendance.

“No.  Let them rest in peace.  We’re well shot of them.”

“Fine by me.  Where to now?”

“Street.  At last.”

Actually, although we refer to our destination as ‘Street’ it is in fact the ‘Clark Village’ we visit–a large site filled with ‘factory shops’, being outlets for major retailers, selling their seconds and sale goods.

It was cold and wet so I kept my camera safely in my bag in spite of my earlier intent to take a few candid shots of ardent shoppers.  Actually, being rather more honest, I simply wasn’t in the mood.  My legs had taken on a “let’s give the auld bugger a bit of gyp” attitude to life.  There’s no arguing with them when they do that and, though you can ignore them for a while, once round Bridgwater and a pass round the Clark Village is a tad over my limit on a bad day.

I found two decent cotton twill shirts, though, so the main target of my day was achieved.

Dinner was a yum, yum, pig’s bum, cabbage and potatoes affair and we shoved our plates back, empty and polished, with simultaneous sighs of satisfaction.

“Might not be a posh meal, but it’s a close second to my absolute favourite,” Graham said, patting his full tummy.

“Oh?  What’s your favourite, then?” I asked, as if I didn’t know.

“Corned beef hash.”

“Fair enough.  I’ll see if I can’t manage one of those when you get back home on Saturday or Sunday, then.”

“It’s a date.”

And so, not long after, to bed, to dream of the time when my legs could dance better than Billy Ray Cyrus.  I can still sing better.