Doing the right thing

Was it the right thing to do? I am never sure. Perhaps there is no absolute right. Perhaps there is always to be doubt and that that is OK. It felt right at the time. Was it the tea? I snatched two cups at work, just to keep me going. It has a potent effect on me, tea. My cocaine. It lifts me. The cup that lifts – was that an advertising campaign strap line for a brand? PG, perhaps? I am lifted, energised by it, though it steals my sleep later. I got so much done and was inspired to do more. But it spurred me on and I booked it. I booked my place. Was it the right thing to do? Time will tell.

So often it is about the money, I fret about spending when I am earning so little. Work has come in dribs and drabs. I love the time at home it affords me but rue the small amount that I can contribute. What about all the other things you do? he asks. I know. I do a lot. I make it smooth. I smooth our lives. It is just a habit thing, this flagellating. I am doing the best I can, living the best way I can with what has been given me. Trying to live authentically, using my skills. And if they are not money-making talents then so be it. I am practical; I work hard in my way. I keep things smooth.

It was lovely to walk this morning. I love to walk under a full moon. No torch needed. The sea shimmered silver and the Perygyl was lit white. The tide was far and the water lapped. Town was busy with holidaymakers. All the students have gone home. Bodies sat on benches in the half light. Two men were laughing. Or at least one of them was – laughing at his mate lurching, swaying as he walked. What a night, he said, what a night. Then two girls without coats, arms and shoulders bare. And another pair coming out of Pier Pressure, one watching her heeled boots on the wooden slats. Then coming down Mill Street and walking behind a clump of bodies, I catch their spurts of conversation, hearing them weave into each other. I cannot remember what they said now. I notice the details at the time, what they were wearing, a parka, an anorak with what looked like a furry hood but turned out to be a lacy pattern, but then they are all too soon forgotten. I see things on the ground, a two-penny piece (shall I pick it up for luck?), a plastic seal from a milk bottle and other bits of flotsam and jetsam of daily life.

Is it bad luck to look at the moon through glass? Did I read that somewhere? How could you not? It is magical. Yellow today.

The ideas came thick and fast and I think about another strand to my performance sewing – going into other people’s living rooms. It’s the presence thing again and the intimacy. How would it be to sit and sew amidst other people’s family life? I think about modern lounges, the huge TVs, kids gaming, music on, rushing about, not being still. Always the stereotype but you have to start somewhere and the image must’ve come from somewhere. How would it be if I sat amongst all that clamour? What would it be for? To witness, observe, change, incite reflection, debate? Could I hire myself out? All kitted out – a Victorian costume with crinoline. Would it just be a circus act or would there be something profound there too? A baby-sitter? A retrospective step, your very own costume drama. Did you grandmother used to do this? The Angel of the House. The ghost of the drawing room.

Can we be still?

We need another seminar in Aberdovey, I shouted to him across the kitchen. Yes, he shouted back. When?