Bad wallpaper

Saturday September 23, 2006

Watching a little bit of The Shining on TV this evening I discovered a new fact about myself. Not sure if it’s a comfortable fact, or one of the uncomfortable kind.

It was just getting to the first exposure of the extremely gory kind, which had been hinted at all the way through. Masterful writing. I sat still for a moment, a forkful of moussaka half-way to my mouth and… do you know what I thought?

‘Well, if they go for wallpaper like that, what do they expect?’

Oh well. Once an interior designer, always an interior designer, I suppose.

It’s been a quiet, uneventful day other than that. A bit of rain, a bit of sun, and once, just once, a breath of wind. Mostly, it’s been as still as the kind of day that either follows on or signals weather of the dramatic kind. I suspect the drama has passed. Down the coast a way, and inland and up a way. Not here, though. Just weather. Nothing exciting. Nothing to write home about.

I was a bit sore so I popped a Diclofenac and went back to bed after a late breakfast. Woke, went over to Sainsbury’s for supplies, came home, had a late lunch… popped another Diclofenac, and went back to bed.

The soreness passed, of course, as the healing proceeded, and so I woke about seven this evening, bright and bouncy, all pepped up and… nowhere to go.

To be honest, I have no great desire to go anywhere just now and, apart from a walk, I doubt I’ll go anywhere tomorrow, either. Until, that is, the clock ticks round to the time when I go over to West Quantoxhead to pick Graham up for his short break. I have no vanity of the physical kind left in me, not much, anyway, but I’m inclined to stay home and keep my toothless grin to myself for a while. At least until I’ve mastered the art of smiling with the bottom lip only. You don’t want to know. You really don’t want to know.

Fortunately, we’re just moving into interesting times here in the British Isles. Interesting times of the political kind I can watch on TV.

Tony Blair, our beloved Prime Minister, is about to move into the end of his days in office. No-one knows quite when he’ll go, but the skids are greased, and he’s started in on the long slide. His sell-by date has arrived. If he accepts his imminent exit with good grace, people will say what a good guy he is, what marvellous things he’s done for us all. If he hangs on, he’ll be reviled.

Either way, he’ll be gone before too much longer. Such is the fate of princes. They strut the stage for a while and then, one way or another, they exit. Life goes on. It seemed impossible that there’d be a life after Churchill. But there was. It seemed impossible that there’d be a life after Thatcher. But there was. And there’ll be a life after Blair, too. History, never too apparent while you’re living it, has a way of making sure that life goes on.

So, grinning toothlessly, safe in the knowledge that no-one can see, I shall observe the doings of the Exit of Blair on the TV, suck the juicy pulp out of grapes, spit the unchewable skins out, and allow myself to be amused.

Unless they have really bad wallpaper of course. Can’t be doing with bad wallpaper.

 

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