It’s almost two months since
I wrote a single word. I haven’t felt like it. There’s been
nothing much to write about. Life goes on. Who said it was easy?
After a fortnight of clear, dry, cold, sunny weather, this morning is
particularly bleak. The heating is full on. The house is roasting,
in contrast to three degrees outside. I look through the french
windows into the back garden, from my perch on my white faux-leather
chair. Rain is falling copiously, splashing onto the garden bench
and lying a centimetre deep on the patio. The poor bedraggled
sparrows squabble amongst themselves for the right to peck food I put
out every day into a number of coconut shells. A dunnock scratches
around the flagstones for morsels of fat that the untidy sparrows
throw out in their haste to snatch any food that is left. A tiny,
mouse-like, tree creeper busies itself, running up and down the maple
tree, searching crevices in the bark for insects. The ground is
awash with leaves. I sweep the artificial lawn and the patio every
day, only to find within fifteen minutes the same number of leaves on
the deck as I have just swept up and binned. It’s like ‘Groundhog
Day’ round here at this time of year. The sky is as grey as a horse
blanket and, looking to the west where all this weather is coming
from, there is no break in the cloud, so we can look forward to this
rain all day. It’s on days like this that I wish I was still
working. I took the dog out first thing. I wore my fedora hat and
waterproof Barbour jacket. I walked for three-quarters of an hour.
Rain poured from the brim of my hat as if from a leaking gutter.
My sweatshirt was saturated because the Barbour proved to be somewhat
less than waterproof. My shoulders were soaking, as if I had draped a
wet towel over them. I could hardly move my arms. Needless to say, I
cut the walk short. My glasses had steamed up, so I had to take them
off. I’m like Mr Magoo without them, and I virtually had to feel my
way home. Only the knees of my trousers stayed dry. Once I had
squelched back to the house, I dumped my shirt and breeks into the wash and
put on dry clothes. On sunny days, everyone gives you a warm and
cheery greeting. “Nice day today”; “Looks like it’s set
fair”; “Good to see some sunshine” - that sort of thing. On
days like this, people avert your gaze and pass by with haunted
expressions on their faces. Their optimism has disappeared, along
with the sunshine. I had taken my camera in the hope of seeing
something worth photographing, but the built-in light meter told me I
would have to use the night-time feature using the ‘bulb’
setting.
It’s filling in the rest of the day that’s the problem.
I’ve got a casserole to make, and that will occupy some of my time
later. I’m in the middle of a travel book called ‘In Siberia’
by Colin Thubron, whereby a day like this is to the Siberians like a
day in the Costa Del Sol. I could start writing a short story, except
I’ve had writers’ block since 1993. I could sketch or paint a
landscape, except it would look like something created by an
oran-utang. I could vacuum, which would use up twenty minutes. I
could watch daytime television, except I’ve had a bellyful of Sun
Alliance adverts and those ones from Royal London about funerals that
look as though they’ve been made by a five-year-old from cut-up
cereal packets. That’s not to mention the PPI advert from
Gladstone Brookes where a chap with the build of a rugby
three-quarter tells you you’ve only got until 2019 to claim for cash that you cannot fail to get, provided you opnly use the services of Gladstone Brookes.
I
spent the first twenty minutes of this morning genuinely believing
this was Sunday, until I switched on Radio Four Extra and ‘Dad’s
Army’ came over the airwaves, and the realisation that, in fact, it
was Monday after all.
