People ask me ‘How do you
avoid boredom now that you’re down to working just two days a week and you’ll
shortly be out of work altogether?’ I
tell them I don’t – I embrace it. Take
yesterday, for instance. I got up at
seven and looked out of the window. The
sun shone, and the air was as crisp and clean as a digestive biscuit. I made myself some breakfast, which included
a couple of croissants from Tesco which, to my knowledge, contained no
horsemeat. Unfortunately, the Typhoo tea I drank was banal and the leaves must
have been picked from the very bottom of the tea-plant.
I put out seeds for the birds, except I only seem to feed scrofulous wood-pigeons these days. The siskins and blackcap warblers that used to frequent my bird table are long gone.
I took the little black dog for a walk. I wore my black fedora hat. I looked like a cross between Ted Moult and Fred Scuttle. We played football down at the park. That comprises me arthritically kicking a tennis ball and her bringing it back. It’s a perfect partnership. I can continue walking and kicking right across the grass without once breaking my stride.
On my return, I drank coffee that tasted of molasses and re-read Paul Theroux’s travel book ‘The Great Railway Bazaar’, in which his companion, poor old Duffill, was left on the platform in Venice whilst his luggage sailed on to Istanbul.
I watched the last three episodes of ‘September Song’ on DVD, from 1995, an absurdly sentimental light drama about an ex-teacher and a failed stand-up comedian running a variety show on Cromer Pier. It starred, improbably, Russ Abbot in a ludicrous wig that looked like a steep bank of cumulonimbus, and Michael Williams impersonating Rob Wilton. It also starred that grizzled old ‘Z-Cars’ favourite, Frank Windsor, clad in Egyptian robes and a fez, hosting a game show on stage, in company with a pantomime camel.
I downloaded Web Spotify onto my pc via Facebook and listened to some of Kate Bush’s more bizarre outpourings. The highlight, however, was Hurricane Smith singing ‘An Englishman In New York.’ It sounded like a corncrake in a tight collar with the whooping-cough.
I listened to the BBC radio i-player, a brilliant facility, on my pc. Amazingly, Brian Matthew played George Formby’s ‘Happy-Go-Lucky Me’ on ‘Sounds of The Sixties.’ You may remember it as being the song of the Xmas advert for one of the big stores a couple of years ago, George released it in 1960, and died the very next year. I read somewhere that they auctioned off his unwashed underpants after his death, but that might have been apocryphal.
I listened to ‘Brief Lives.’ This is a lugubrious programme about dead people of whom hardly anybody has heard, but is none the less fascinating for all that, because they have all had such varied and interesting lives. On this programme was an architect, a cartoonist, a diplomat and a French Resistance chap along the lines of RenéArtois
Finally, I listened to Desmond Carrington – it was always my dad’s favourite programme. Carrington is 85 years old, but he always manages to play a surprising record amongst all the crooning and easy listening. This time it was Steve Harley and Cockney Rebel’s version of ‘Here Comes The Sun.’
Bored? There’s simply no time to get bored around here with all this going on.
I put out seeds for the birds, except I only seem to feed scrofulous wood-pigeons these days. The siskins and blackcap warblers that used to frequent my bird table are long gone.
I took the little black dog for a walk. I wore my black fedora hat. I looked like a cross between Ted Moult and Fred Scuttle. We played football down at the park. That comprises me arthritically kicking a tennis ball and her bringing it back. It’s a perfect partnership. I can continue walking and kicking right across the grass without once breaking my stride.
On my return, I drank coffee that tasted of molasses and re-read Paul Theroux’s travel book ‘The Great Railway Bazaar’, in which his companion, poor old Duffill, was left on the platform in Venice whilst his luggage sailed on to Istanbul.
I watched the last three episodes of ‘September Song’ on DVD, from 1995, an absurdly sentimental light drama about an ex-teacher and a failed stand-up comedian running a variety show on Cromer Pier. It starred, improbably, Russ Abbot in a ludicrous wig that looked like a steep bank of cumulonimbus, and Michael Williams impersonating Rob Wilton. It also starred that grizzled old ‘Z-Cars’ favourite, Frank Windsor, clad in Egyptian robes and a fez, hosting a game show on stage, in company with a pantomime camel.
I downloaded Web Spotify onto my pc via Facebook and listened to some of Kate Bush’s more bizarre outpourings. The highlight, however, was Hurricane Smith singing ‘An Englishman In New York.’ It sounded like a corncrake in a tight collar with the whooping-cough.
I listened to the BBC radio i-player, a brilliant facility, on my pc. Amazingly, Brian Matthew played George Formby’s ‘Happy-Go-Lucky Me’ on ‘Sounds of The Sixties.’ You may remember it as being the song of the Xmas advert for one of the big stores a couple of years ago, George released it in 1960, and died the very next year. I read somewhere that they auctioned off his unwashed underpants after his death, but that might have been apocryphal.
I listened to ‘Brief Lives.’ This is a lugubrious programme about dead people of whom hardly anybody has heard, but is none the less fascinating for all that, because they have all had such varied and interesting lives. On this programme was an architect, a cartoonist, a diplomat and a French Resistance chap along the lines of René
Finally, I listened to Desmond Carrington – it was always my dad’s favourite programme. Carrington is 85 years old, but he always manages to play a surprising record amongst all the crooning and easy listening. This time it was Steve Harley and Cockney Rebel’s version of ‘Here Comes The Sun.’
Bored? There’s simply no time to get bored around here with all this going on.
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