Sad and SAD

Last week, as I was whiling away some time on Twitter, I came across a guy who, like me, does not enjoy this time of year. He told me that it has all improved for him as he got older, and I guess that, together with saggy knees, the menopause, liver spots and dentures, maybe there will be something to look forward to with Old Age. Imagine enjoying March to August instead of proceeding as if shackled into a mould of black treacle...! I cannot even process it, dear reader, as even on those days when I step outside in a silk dress and with my hair in a knot because it doesn't need drying and styling, I invariably catch myself thinking that... God, if only it were October already and I could wear my scarf...

I settled down in bed at 11.30 last night and then I tossed and turned. And then tossed and turned some more. 0.47 am. Then 1.47 am. Then 2 am. Then 3 am. Then... you get the picture. Of course Victoria now gets up at an ungodly hour, as she sees so much light so early and evidently thinks that 5 am doesn't really look like 5 but more like 9. Wrong Vic. William isn't much better, although he seems to have understood the significance of TO YOUR BED!!!!!! after twelve years of living together. 

When I finally caved in at 7.15 and got up, bending to their scandalous requests to be fed broadcast in my face at full volume, I felt teary. Here's another reason why I could never be a parent: I need to sleep. When I don't sleep, I feel tragic. When I don't sleep and it's summer, I feel even worse if humanely possible.

It's now 3 pm, I've been sitting at the computer for what feels like a lifetime, and I am all but ready to drop face-first onto the keyboard. Except... I've got one bloody ghastly meeting to get through still and the air is tepid and the windows are open and I am in such a low-key mood that it's a lucky miracle I didn't have to see anyone today, because I think that visual stimulation other than the blinking cursor may as well caused an implosion of my mental faculties. 

It's not just the Seasonal Affective Disorder though; indeed I am not just afflicted by SAD, I am also sad. 

As the whole job situation is as slick as oil and gives me the much treasured opportunity to think about all good things, something has been paining me for quite some time and I must confess that I am experiencing all of it as a death, no overstatement there. I think that it isn't just the SAD that didn't allow me to sleep last night but rather the enormous difficulties that I've been experiencing. 

I don't know how to cope. In fact, the other day I wrote a pointless email to my best friend, telling him that my problem is... I don't know how to cope. But I guess that nobody knows how to cope about anything anyway, and that we only travel through desolate lands because we have no choice. I keep telling myself that absolutely everything will be fine by my birthday and that I needn't think about anything at all right now. But that's still two months ago. I guess I would be just a little bit happy if I could remove Victoria's cone, thus preserving what remains of the house. Just another week to go and then I'll update you all.

Dark And Stormy Days

Since I last wrote, we’re  expiating the splendid weather that graced my part of the country during April. Instead of April showers we are dealing with May showers and with the only exception of my working in London last week, up here it has been nothing but very dark clouds and rain. I find something immensely appealing though about this state of the sky because my garden is completely out of control in the green department, with tall, tall grasses and the trees resplendent with glossy new leaves against this backdrop of dark grey. You wouldn’t believe how that sets them off!

But, of course, the first time it rains after a few weeks really is the very best time. I love the smell of the soil and the grass and there is little that I find more uplifting than writing early in the evening during the summer, when the rain is lashing down and birds are still singing on the branches. Have you ever noticed that? Birds sing in the rain, they are not at all like us, begrudging the weather and complaining about it. They have little parties out there, they tell one another stories and they don’t care at all that it’s raining. And they don’t even have brollies. We could learn a thing or two from observing birds in the rain. 

And, ah yes, London. I’m currently scheming to return to work there and, all being well, that’s precisely what I will be able to do very shortly. While this is appealing in many ways, I am not that thrilled to leave Victoria during the week (or William, but she is the one needing some special care at present). Yesterday I saw François again and I will most likely have to take her back to ensure that her ear is healing appropriately. The girl is fine but the new tissue within the opening is struggling to seal up properly. I’ve been kicking myself for the past day because I should have taken her back when I first found her with her paw in her ear two days after her operation. She ripped five stitches out then and it all went a bit awkward on the healing side of things, even though she is not bothered by anything. More on this as it evolves.

Spring Tales

I don’t remember a shower-less April, except for this April. With the only exception of Monday 4, a day which I remember clearly because Victoria was in hospital for a biopsy, I needed no heating on, no pashmina at all hours, no thick socks. If truth be told, it’s been a bit of a revelation. Spring around these parts is so ostentatiously wet and bad that anything other than comes as a bit of a shock. I just didn’t know what to wear, and I never not know what to wear.

I pointed my iPhone at everything that moved and didn’t move, taking pics of birds and trees, flowers, shoes, magazine covers, food, lattes and cappuccinos... the usual stuff really, but everything looked better in this light and especially with a backdrop of often very blue sky. From Easter to today, including the day of the rather stellar Royal Wedding (I love a good wedding me), everything was just perfectly full of colour and life. Good job I don’t have a job because that would have really thrown a spanner in the works, wouldn’t it? Imagine being locked away in a window-less office while it’s all crisp and green outside... Much easier to be at work in the depths of winter (provided there’s no snow, because if it’s snowy one must certainly wish to be playing outside in it). 

Still

Websites, mags, news outlets, books and even the rags often talk about our fast-paced lifestyle. Well, mine isn’t fast-paced and hasn’t been for a long time, but over the past few weeks (I’d say since mid-February), it has slowed down to unadulterated, calm stillness. Don’t get me wrong though; I still feel like days turn into weeks turn into months far too quickly for my liking. It wasn’t long ago that there was snow on the ground and already we’ve hit the end of March. But I’ve started living differently and that difference is stillness. 

Gone is the pressure to do things as others expect me to do them and gone is also the burning need to hit imaginary deadlines. Yes, I did want to write a bit on here about pancake day and what I cooked for it and how good it was and also about Victoria’s ninth birthday but, you know what, it doesn’t really matter that I did not. I am creating in my lab these days. I’ve finally started the art journal that had been percolating in my mind for many months (if not... years). There is colour, lots of colour, and a lot of uncharted possibility in my going-ons lately and I love it. 

Meanwhile, my dogs are spending more time outside, the garden is waking up and today I got a fantastic pair of shoes. Oh, and my local Starbee is open again. What more do I want? 

February is Winter

A couple of weeks ago, that Phil guy decreed that spring was just around the corner. Well, I believed him. For a couple of days it even looked like he was right. But apart from an isolated and freakish occurrence of +12C one afternoon, Mr Winter has certainly come back here where I live.

Last Wednesday it was my wedding anniversary and I spent it in the city, where the sky was blue and everything looked beautiful, but it was also windy, and deadly so, and it felt more like a bright November day, not a February one. Then again, February is in winter, so I don’t really know why we insist on looking for signs of spring when it’s still so cold outside. It’s a bit like hankering after autumn in the middle of August (ahem… that’s something I do, I know!).

Parts of the East Coast of the USA woke up to a fresh snowfall today and I cannot imagine a better way to spend Presidents’ Day. In fact, I am hoping that next year I will be there around about this time and that instead of fending off cold drizzling rain, I may well be strolling up and down Madison Avenue under a crisp sky, preferably somewhere way below zero. Meanwhile, my friends from Australia speak of incredibly tropic temperatures and of air con whirring away all night. Gosh. It’s unthinkable for me to live in such a climate. After all, if you’re cold, you can always cover up, but where the hell do you go when it’s boiling hot?

Ugh!

In other developments, things shall be spruced up soon enough around these parts and I shall eventually return to chronicling my daily endeavours more frequently than I have done for the past year. While my other site still takes up most of my time, I am inordinately attached to Domestic Miss and I have racked up lots of recipes I would like to share on here. And I’ve got to tell you about movies I’ve seen and books I’ve read and things I’m doing and… more.

Eighteen-One-Twenty-O-Eight

Three years ago today, at this precise moment, I was almost in Chicago. I was there for work yet again, but I had taken some days off beforehand, so that I could have a gander and enjoy the magnificent city, its blue sky, the iced lake, the very brisk -20C or thereabouts and the generous sales. I had only just started this online diary and I certainly regret that in its first few weeks, I was not that forthcoming in updating it. I could have written so much during my days in Chicago, but I was wrapped up in work and in the PhD and I had not yet discovered the immense value of recording one’s life, even the plain, the mundane, the painful.

So much has happened over these past three years that I cannot quite believe I really am talking of three years. On second thoughts, it’s not what has happened that strikes me as incredible but rather what has changed. I still live in the same house and wear the same clothes (more or less… but it so just happens that today I was out in exactly the same knitted dress and puffa coat and long boots I wore in Chicago on this day), but I am a different person. I don’t think anyone who knows me can quite tell the difference, but I can, in that subtle way in which we look the same in the mirror every morning but pictures from weeks before look immensely different to ourselves.

The most remarkable change is one that has nothing to do with the way I look or feel though. I am different because I’ve learnt about the importance of keeping track of my everyday doings. I have a paper diary, as usual, this site and another site as well, and now that there are so many applications for the iPhone, it’s remarkably easy to keep track of every single little thing that catches my eye. So I am a little despondent about my last trip to Chicago, when I was so sparse in the cataloguing side of things, but as my key word for 2011 is FORWARD then that’s what I should focus on. And next time I am in Chicago, I won’t skimp on recording everything.

Depths of Winter

The day started late, as it’s been customary since Christmas. I go to bed early enough in the evenings, but I can happily snooze until 9 am. The hot duvet is such a comfort when it’s cold and dark outside that I’ve got no reason, nor need, to throw my legs out of the bed any earlier. William and Victoria too enjoy these sleep-ins. When I first checked the time today, I heard William’s soft snoring from his corner of the room. That’s a sound that always makes me happy.

I find January 17 a peculiar date. It’s usually the day when I feel like the new year isn’t new any longer. I feel like I am hurtling towards month number two, and that in the depths of winter (we’re barely four weeks in), things spring eternal. I was scouring the soil at the graveyard in Knutsford on Saturday, but saw no snowdrops yet, nor the promise of them. On my window sill, on the other hand, cyclamens are pushing through valiantly, even though the new guinea is as low-key as it has been since I bought it many months ago and the azalea looks pretty much dead. I think they’re just… sleeping. Just like me.

Yesterday I had a gander at my local M&S and my heart skipped with joy as I saw the first of the Valentine’s tack that will take over our shops for the next few weeks. Oh, how do I love this non-holiday! My wedding anniversary is only two days later and there is nothing I prefer than to celebrate how lucky I’ve been in love for so many years already. And before then I’ll watch Groundhog Day again (disclosure: actually… I’ve already done…) and will hole up in the house and enjoy winter. God I wish I could stop time. Or maybe I wish I could slow it down. Yes, slowing it down would do just fine.

Au Revoir Mes Amis – Part IV

January doesn’t really start for me until I put away the Crimbo decorations. It’s a process that I’ve always found bitter-sweet (or... sweat-and-sour, I should say). Part of me is usually thrilled at the prospect of novelty that January has always brought into my life, and this is especially true this year.



Yet, another part of me, the larger one, I should add, is not at all thrilled and treats the unhooking of glass baubles and detaching of twinkly things and lights as a little death. If I am spending the first day (or most of it), after such process at home, as was the case today, I end up walking around in a daze, my eyes searching the comforting glow of the lights on the tree, and finding only a dark, empty corner.

I think it’s symptomatic that I’ve wanted to write of these things each year since I started my online diary. In fact, I think that my first post ever was the very first Au Revoir Mes Amis in 2008. Let me check. No, it was my second post ever. Then I repeated it in 2009 and in 2010 and then today.

Today was a dark day. It rained for a while, although I am not sure those spits actually qualify as rain. I had a couple of errands to run, stuff I had forgotten twice over last week. After those, I sat in Starbucks, determined to crack open my new diary (the paper one). And I did so, except... I didn’t know what to write, which is a bit unlike me. I think I was suffering from New Diary Syndrome, that odd affliction that catches most writers out when something new and papery falls open on the table.

A new diary or journal is full of promises, of unwritten adventures, of new hopes and starts. I felt extremely hopeful a year ago, but the result was disappointing. Now I’ve got novelty served on a platter, and I am fearful of it; I am fearful to go after what is righteously mine. Hence I soiled the new diary with an extremely self-conscious page of tentative prose which was neither here nor there, really. But I ended that page by talking about my journal, the one I’ve wanted to start since October 2008 (I kid you not) and the one that I am starting tonight. By the time I will put the decorations away again next January, I will have a journal full of drawings to leaf through and that, in itself, is already uplifting. I don’t know why we treat our journals and diaries as if they were repositories of our pains when, really, they should exist to blunt them, not reflect them.

Hello 2011

Turning The Leaf

Frosty morning

I’ve never been more skimpy in keeping track of everyday ongoings than this year. Then again, I also run another site about writing where I posted almost two hundred times since February, so I guess that I’ve been writing as normal, really. But, deep down, I do know that I refrained from updating my online diary too often because I didn’t want a permanent memory of what happened in 2010. It was my annus horribilis, no contest, so much so that I threw away the calendars over a week ago and I shall also consign my diary to the recycling bin, something I’ve never done in my entire life.


Fortnum cappuccino with tiny ice-cream


Fortnum Christmas window 2010


Feeding seagulls in Knutsford on Boxing Day

December itself, however, was a pretty good month, as it brought about the changes I had been chasing for a long time and because I was in London for a while, made some new friends, and cooked quite a bit also. In fact, this afternoon I was in the kitchen for four hours solid, during which I produced carrots trifolate, white cabbage in tomato sauce and a rather mouth-watering caramel shortbread that is currently setting in the fridge. Oh and the other day I made a clementine cake that is to die for, as most of Nigella’s recipes are.


At the Natural History Museum, London


Nativity in Beauchamp Place


Harrods Christmas window 2010

Christmas was subdued but on Boxing Day, which also happens to be my nameday, as it is St Stephen’s Day, I went to Knutsford and fed the birds at the moor. How fantastic to see them swarm above my head (and at my feet), hankering after some bread! It was all frozen and they needed food desperately. Talking of frozen, the weather was completely fabulous up until a few days ago when the air turned, the temperature soared way above zero and now it is all foggy and damp and nothing special. I miss the sharp, blue mornings immensely, but I can live in hope that winter will bring more arctic days in the very near future. And I guess that tomorrow I shall post some of the recipes I’ve been doing...


A Crimbo cappuccino


My upside-down Christmas tree

Of Golden Autumn

Since the inception of my online diary I've been really, really disciplined with my updates. When 2010 came, I thought that things would be no different, except I could not know that it was going to be one of the greatest tests of my life. And perhaps it hasn't been the most horrible year since records began (it surely is competing with 1995), but there is something about it that makes me wonder whether it will take the prize in the end.

But as I said many times in recent weeks, and certainly since summer, I knew that things were afoot, I knew that things were changing. What I really meant was not merely 'morphing into more of the same' but changing for the better. And now they have. For real. And hopefully, from now on, it won't be just onwards but upwards too.



October has been predominantly golden, which doesn't happen often here. Many days were mild and sunny and last Monday I was up very early, enjoying the frosty garden and half an inch of ice to scrape off my windscreen. Then something happened mid-week; autumn turned from mellow to deep. When I returned home on Friday evening, my garden had turned into something else. The last few pears had fallen to the ground and the oak at the bottom fence had turned yellow. I'm always a bit surprised when this happens, much as I am taken aback by the morning, usually in late April, when I suddenly find leaves everywhere. I swear there were none only the day before.

I surveyed the remains this afternoon and even found the carcass of a bird at the very back (poor thing, I couldn't quite tell what it was, nor how its life ended). Meanwhile, the plants I had cut off in the spring have now composted, the roses are bent over themselves, the cherry tree is canary yellow and the high winds are battering whatever is left. Yellow, yellow, yellow, it's everywhere. Gosh my friends, I love it. I love it all.

Tomorrow I shall wear a thick black skirt with sewn jewels and a soft cashmere cardie. I am sooooo in my element my heart is skipping in my chest. On Saturday I am going to the fireworks and then, very soon, the Christmas Markets will arrive as well. For the first time in a very, very long time, I am going to enjoy myself. I am so happy.

Off The Record

Today the sky was blue and it was cold. It was the first crisp autumn day we’ve had this year and the first time I’ve actually noticed the leaves changing. I’ve resisted the impulse to write in my online diary this month because I do not wish to leave a permanent record of latest happenings. Not that I worry about re-reading any of these entries, for I never do, but there is something quite off-putting about writing about feeling down when we are in the middle of it. It somehow makes it more real and, consequently, more painful still. Last time I wrote about flux. It’s still all in flux, not just for me but for Rick as well. I hope that my next entry on here will bring conclusion to a period that, quite frankly, I cannot wait to draw a thick, fat line over.

Flux

A couple of weeks ago one of my clients wrote to me with a quick update regarding everything being in flux. Yes, in flux. This word, flux, really stuck to my mind as I considered my year up until that point. Then someone else wrote and told me that, hey, the planets are shifting, everything’s changing! And do you know something? Yes, it’s true. I think that much is afoot and that would be great because I have to tell you that I need some novelty in order to stop and think.

The year has swooshed by me. I just cannot believe that I last updated this place almost three weeks ago. In fact, I cannot quite believe how slack I’ve been over the summer, when I concentrated on other things and decided, quite, quite consciously I should tell you, not to keep a record of non-happenings. But now... everything’s different. I’m on the cusp of something, even though the everyday is still the same: squinting dogs, sleeping dogs and cakes.

Delicious

There is something really, really weird about reading other sites and blogs and looking at pics of people on beaches, in gardens in swimming costumes, walking around in plastic flip-flops. Of course I am not referring to the people of Oz or thereabouts, they are always wearing flip-flops down there, aren't they, but in North America and in many other parts of Europe it is still decidedly summer.


Here meanwhile, despite the pleasant weather, mornings are nippy to say the least, and when I was out with my dogs earlier I could just smell autumn. Hence I felt slightly odd that my most unexpected birthday gifts are so summer-like that I don't know what to do with them. A pair of glorious satin Prada wedges and a Tom Ford nude lipstick. I may just soldier on at 13C and pretend I'm in California anyway.

Tepid Birthday

Considering how low-key, weather-wise, July and August have been (not that I am complaining), today was a pleasant surprise or, as I often like to say, everything looked weird under the sunshine. It is the first birthday in many years that I've spent at home, by which I mean, in the house. Yes, that's right, I didn't go anywhere. I didn't do anything. Well, nothing other than beginning the day with a breakkie of chocolates and tea and spent the rest of it munching on my Irish coffee chocolate truffle cake. In fact, shouldn't I be posting that recipe around about now?



I'll tell you what, I'll do that another day. So while I lounged in the garden surrounded by dogs, I thought of how odd this year has been. I just cannot believe it is already September. Sorry, I just can't. I am deliriously happy that it is, mind you, but the year has morphed into one day that started sometime back, with the snow on the ground and now the leaves are about to turn again. One day. One... Groundhog Day actually. And that isn't necessarily a very good thing, is it?

The Unexpected Guest – Part II

Sometimes last year I told you about this unexpected guest. Yesterday, another one showed up. As I was watering my plants, I noticed a bird I never see in my garden, a duck. So I rushed outside to investigate, as I was pretty sure she had flown in but I couldn't quite figure out why she wouldn't return to where she came from, although it ain't unusual for young ones to lag behind and need some assistance later.



After some running around, she did end up in my porch, and that's where I succeeded in getting hold of her and inspecting feet and wings. She was absolutely fine, apart from a bit of a heart attack, as I could feel her little heart pounding in my hands as I opened the door back to the garden and threw her in the air to check on flight abilities.

She was in good spirits after that, as she wasn't injured, and continued to plod around the garden, drinking from the pond, unearthing worms and picking crickets and spiders in the high grass. So I left her to it, ensuring that both William and Victoria stayed inside. I could see them with their mouths wide open, spit smeared all over the treble-glazing, and figured that Duckie may not have been able to fly after all if I let them out too.



She was still around when I took them for a spin of the garden after dinner, both on lead obviously, but she was clearly setting up for the night as she was calm and cozy in the grass. I checked on her again at nine and I saw that she was surveying the scene from the high-rise of the steps outside the patio doors, probably wondering where on earth the rest of the posse was and whether it would be safe to stop here overnight.



That's what she must have done as I didn't hear a thing since and this morning she was gone. Good luck Duckie, it was good to have you!

Changes

Last Thursday I was in London for a meeting. The day before I went, I wrote in my paper diary: 'Tomorrow's meeting is going to Change Everything'. And as it turns out, I may have to say that, yes, it did change things in unexpected ways. I have another meeting tonight and it all looks set to solve one rack of important issues insofar as what I do is concerned.



I took the opportunity to have a spin around my favourite places and had lunch at Ladurée at Harrods, coming away with a large box of macaroons (because it would be criminal to visit without bringing some home) and three boxes of their fantastic tea. Such a difference from the supermarket rusk, I am telling you (that includes you, Twinings).

Rick and I have been talking about moving to London for a while. In fact, we've been talking and thinking about moving for ages and ages, we've just never done anything specific to make this happen. Now we are. The thing is, I miss London terribly. I love where I am now, but it cannot be compared to London. In fact, few places can, and they usually are other vessels of creativity (New York is one). I'll tell you more; I've bought a little pretty notebook which I am calling My London Move Notebook. In it, I am listing all interesting things I see around, houses for sale, new shops that crop up and so on and so forth. Actually, I highly recommend this sort of activity for anything you may wish to achieve. Show intention and things will begin to happen, you'll see.

It's Coming Home

I was out in the garden super-early this morning and I was thrilled. Yes, thrilled. Do you know when the weather is turning, usually for the worse, and you feel and smell new air? I swear I caught a first whiff of, dare I say it, autumn. But it isn't a first sign actually, as the other day I was driving through some trees and I noted many little yellow leaves wafting in the wind and landing on the road. My heart skipped a beat; could this be it?! It has begun already, hurrah!



The result of this slow-but-steady seasonal change is two-fold: I've proceeded really nicely on the work I am doing, after a June which turned out to be pretty much a total write-off, and I have paused to consider how incredibly fast this year has zoomed past me. I know that it ain't over yet for a really good stretch, but there is something of an enormous shift within oneself when certain dates are coming up and one realises that, yet again, life is skipping along at a million miles an hour as we pant and shout in its wake: 'Wait! Wait for me! I am coming too!'.

I know why I feel this way. My birthday is coming up in September, in fact, at the very beginning, on the very first day, and there is nothing I like more than it (well, Christmas, but if we discount Christmas then there really is nothing I like more than my birthday). And the very odd realisation, when I look at pics from birthdays past, is that I haven't changed that much at all. Reasons to rejoice you will think? I guess so and yet it seems to me that, not having changed that much, makes me feel stuck and muddled in The Same, whatever I perceive that to be, with all the dangers inherent to that thought.

Today the Dyson doctor is coming. On Friday the cable detached itself from the machine as I was using it and a Mighty Pow at full 240v force left a burn in the floor as I picked it up, surveyed the sizzling end and realised that I got really lucky. I may not have died (wouldn't want to try it, mind you), but I could have ended up with a zinged foot. So why telling you this? Because the last time the Dyson doctor came over was two years ago. Two years. And, no kidding, it feels like five minutes ago.

Lists

I consider myself remakably bad at getting things done. Yes, that’s exactly what I said. I am aware that this may seem an odd thing to say, especially for one who brags about writing, cooking, knitting, sewing, walking in parks and whatnot, but the sad truth is, I never feel on top of things. I am in constant catch-up mode. I’ve been in catch-up mode since I finished my first degree, when days stretched empty and sweet ahead of me. Oh if only they could have stayed that way. Life, real life, is hideous.



I’ve never felt so disastrously behind as I have over the past four weeks. I know exactly what stopped my progress which, at the time, was chugging along quite smoothly, if only ever slightly super-slow on the occasional bend; the weather did. See? I knew that I wouldn’t be able to sit here and update this diary without mentioning the weather. So, the weather did. It was only on Sunday that my bedroom started feeling like a bedroom again and not the stifling greenhouse that it had been up until then.

But yesterday morning, when I sat down detrmined to list all that needs doing, all that needs catching up on and all of the missed deadlines, I felt tears pricking my eyes. God I want this stuggle to be over so badly. Not life itself, no, just these never-ending pressures that have squashed me to the ground and then stuck a fork in my back ever since I took my first steps into the world of work.

I haven’t been serene for a very long time and I just cannot wait for the day when I won’t have to write yet another meaningless list which, in fact, is not an organised step-by-step solution but a monument to failure, there, in black or white (or blue and white, as is the case with me). But there is a plus point today: as it’s cloudy and only +15C outside, it means that I can start making cakes again. Or at least, I would if I had bought the eggs which, I am sure, I must have written down in some other damn list I have yet to work through.

Hello July

At the beginning of last week the weather changed, by which I mean the temperature dropped enough for my bedroom to shift from furnace to open plan pottery studio in the country. Slowly, very, very slowly, I started to return to normality even though I still find this seemingly never-ending stretch of dry weather fascinating. As you can see, I mention it every time I write.



When I got up yesterday morning, however, not only was it sensibly cooler than the previous week, it was also very windy and I just adore windy days, be these by the sea, in the country or in the city. Within five minutes my room smelt clean and fresh and ready to start the day and I myself felt just like that. Except I attempted a home-made coffee which, as per usual, ended up down the sink accompanied by plentiful curses.

Have I ever told you that going out for a decent cup of coffee annoys me immensely? I have three stove-top coffee makers (make that four if we include the Bialetti’s Mukka) and not one, not one, makes one half-decent cup of coffee. Still, I persist. Still, I disgust myself. Still, I try time after time. Narky and pissed off, I got into the Shaguar at 1 pm and went to Starbucks.

I spent today planning because, try as I did try, the past three weeks have been shockingly un-profitable. I have progressed at less than snail’s pace and this morning I found myself with a list of stuff that run over two pages. Odd as it sounded when I used to work as a management consultant, this morning I really did feel there is some merit in planning the plan, especially when everything is completely, for lack of a better description, out of control.

I have short stories to critique and edit, I have one proposal to finish, one 20,000-word piece to write, 300 poems to edit and turn into proofs, three writing appraisals to write and, for fuck’s sake, I’ll stop right here. And of course, July has just started and the World Cup is coming to an end. Gosh, I already miss it. There is something rather reassuring about the flock of early-stage games that fill up our screens for the first two weeks. Ah, yes, who is playing today? Now we’re down to the last four matches and then it’s over for another four years. But you know how it goes... it’s July already... in five minutes’ time it will be 2014.