Sunday March 30, 2008
Woke to a lovely sunny morning and that’s astonishing when, yesterday, I felt that winter had made an unwelcome return after all. I really ought to know better.
Not a peep from the agents again yesterday. They are running out of time.
Graham spent an age online looking at properties in the Neath, South Glamorgan area, turning up one perfectly suitable bungalow after another and all at prices we could easily afford. When faced with such a choice I confess a temptation to set up a short list, drop our selling price to cover the asking price plus expenses, and get cracking on moving house. Any real cash profit we could make on the deal would be limited by the power of my bargaining powers. It’s only Monopoly money, after all.
Hey ho. I’m bored with this obsession. Houses, places and moving between them are things I’d rather not have on my planet.
I think that once we’ve got settled with the new agent I shall shove the whole question on the back burner and turn my eyes back to poetry. Poetry is certainly on my planet.
They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
Between the sun and moon upon the shore;
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,
Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore
Most weary seem’d the sea, weary the oar,
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.
Then some one said, “We will return no more”;
And all at once they sang, “Our island home
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.”
from The Lotus Eaters; Tennyson