She was such a love. The warmth was there from the start. I felt cleansed by it, liked and responded to. We all need that. My mind makes me black inside sometimes, fetid and stinking rotten. It isn’t the truth, but then what is? And I did it. I took hold of it (with his help, bless him) and did it, faced it, ugly though it felt, at least initially. I feel cleaned by it. And ready to work again. To begin again. Thank you.
Yesterday was hard. It threw me. I wasn’t expecting it. I was like a beetle thrown onto its back, upended and unable to right itself. He tried to help. He was tireless in his bolstering. What a love. I woke with it but it’s easing. I begin with forgiving the trespasser. She knows not what she does. If I understand her I can move forward and continue working. Which, after all, is all that matters. And there are plenty who respect and care for me. Those who know me. And I just have to keep doing. That’s all.
A man sat beside a lit bonfire on North Beach, his form a shadow against the flames. Two lads walked over, one came on a bike and both jumped down onto the pebbles to join him. The smoke in the air made it smell like autumn.
I walked through the Castle Park and past The Angel. There was a light on in the shop on the corner that used to be a barbers that he and his cronies used to go to. The barber was Turkish. He’s gone back home. The new shop is called The Snake Room. It’s hard to say what its goods are to be. There are a few printed T-shirts in the window and it looks a bit grungy. Two men sat at a table inside. They were mountainous men with bald heads. On the table were a mass of bottles and glasses. Had they been partying? And in the full view of the town? The men looked sleepy, groggy though they were still upright.
A streak of white, a cat presumably, ran across my path as I walked up the hill towards home. And a sudden gust of very warm air hit me. It was strange. Was it the rush of all the flats on the estate having their heating coming on at once? Who knows?
Tea now and coffee for him and then work. As I always say, onward.
I’ve always been that way. I soak up things, other peoples’ stories mostly. I carry them for them, particularly when I’m writing about them, they stay with me for days. All those sorrows, some joy too. Do I change the tone of their narratives, do I alter them with my own particular way of seeing? She seemed sad, it wasn’t what I expected of her. Does she want me to write of her sadness? I suspect not. Breathe. You have time. Let the tale unfold. See the beauty. It is there.
I listened to Julie Andrews being interviewed by Alec Baldwin on his podcast, I forget the name of it. I’ve always had a soft spot for her. I think it is her voice, she feels safe to me, steady, dependable. She was honest, articulate and open. A good guest. A good interviewee.
I got through. She answered, though the sigh she lets out when she does always throws me a little. I heard the two of them in the background. She came on the phone and spoke about ‘Bumbelina’, and I’ve no idea who or what she was talking about.
I liked her. I was nervous as I always am when dealing with interactions via technology. She was open and theatrical and warm. I think we shall get on. And what a joy it was to feel that language on my tongue and to know that I was making some sense. She got it and commended me on my acquisition of an already substantial vocabulary. Who’d have thought it? Was it osmosis? How joyous it made me feel? Is it all about belonging?
It’s become a habit (I can’t really say obsession, it’s not that dramatic) for him to visit and read the graves in the cemetery near the college playing fields where he walks each day. He often comes back and tells me about the people he has read about. Initially it was people he had known, schoolfellows, friends of his parents and even distant relations. But now it is mainly children, those who died young, some not even reaching their second year. He knows that I will be interested, touched even. They are mostly from the last century though a few have been from this. One grave is marked with a simple wooden cross, that moved him and he has referred to it a few times. He takes pictures of them. One day I will walk there myself.
Listening to David Sedaris yesterday talking about chatting to checkout staff I realise how much of my journal used to be taken up with recording the speech of strangers that I had encountered. No longer. I am quite alone, mostly, inside my head. Perhaps the promise of sun will take me out. Meanwhile there is much work to do. Onwards.
She or they call it pinching, that is, the act of picking off the top leaves off the sweet pea shoots to encourage bushier growth. I did two of them today. I was nervous about doing, it they are such tender things, and I’ve husbanded them with such care. (The woman I watched on YouTube telling me how to do it shared my name.) We shall see.
I listened to a programme about Edgar Wallace who is reputed to have written 10,000 words a day. He didn’t seem to need much sleep, said his daughter. I am humbled by such energy and confidence. As always.
The wind was strong but not the force that they promised. I ventured down towards the harbour but turned back (I always feel so guilty when I do that) when it became too difficult to walk. The sea looked magnificent. And is the moon full?
I spied three camper vans down by the harbour and they’ve put up the bollards that section off the motorbike park on the Prom. It’s starting – the season is beginning, though as yet the B&B are yet to open. Do we want them?
Is it in fact a word? he asked me at breakfast. Mattering? It sounds like it should be – smattering, shattering, scattering – but I don’t think so.
Two young people were messing about with a skateboard on Terrace Road when I walked to the sea this morning. He was on it first then she had a go. I watched her as she whirled about using her arms like propellers to move her forward. When she turned to face me I was taken aback by the sultry beauty of her eyes. She looked Eastern, perhaps from the Philippines?
He was at his window smoking when I set off. I didn’t feel like talking much so we passed a quick weather ‘time of the day’: a bit blustery, at least there’s no rain yet, yes, fingers crossed. But I didn’t ask him about the pot for my sweet peas. I should’ve done. Next time.
It was just a throwaway line in Call the Midwife aimed at fattening up one of the young mothers-to-be. Have the top of the milk and an extra potato, the midwife said to her, oh so cosily. And it clearly worked away at my mind for I dreamt of being handed a small bottle of milk by the postman(do you remember those half pint bottles at school?) and that the lid had been punctured as they used to be by blue tits and my finger went through and I went to lick it off before I remembered (in my dream) that I was a vegan. How I loved the top of the milk as a child. I’d badger for it, can I? can I? and pour it over my Frosties, Coco Pops or Cornflakes.
He was gentle. It was horrid, as it always is having someone drilling in your mouth. It was quick too. No injection (the hole is quite small, he said by way of explanation) thankfully. But it’s the suction thing and the air and the water that is the worst. To be alive is to be discomforted, I think. Though I was chastened by listening to Ray Connolly’s play Devoted afterwards. He caught Covid-19 and was hospitalised for 4 months, bless him. I had no idea it was so appalling. I am humbled.
I need to list these smells, some for outside on my walk and others pervading our flat from downstairs and in no particular order: sage, salt, TCP, garlic and bacon. How would it be to live in a detached house?
It was National Puppy Day yesterday, apparently. Or so they said on Classic FM, occasioning requests for Gershwin’s Walking the Dog. He hates it and I hear him groan from his chair in the corner of the room whenever it comes on. A man was walking his dog in the rain this morning as I began mine. He was ahead of me on Northgate Street and looked a little unsafe so I crossed the street. He walked with a lurch and kept tugging at the lead. The dog was big and looked like a sort of retriever-cross. It wasn’t happy, neither of them were. The lead looked like a home-spun affair – a rope of sorts with lots of knots. Was the dog pulling? It’s owner janked at the leash and at one point made the dog lie down on the pavement. I was edgy watching him.
The lit-up fishing boat in the harbour lifted my spirits somewhat. It had obviously just come in for its lights were still blazing and there was a lorry parked up with its lights on and engine running clearly waiting to take the catch. I saw the driver as I walked down the hill talking to one of the fishermen. He was on the quay while the fisherman was still in the boat. It’s a life I know nothing of, I just observe it from a distance as I walk by, umbrella up against the rain.
I’m to have a filling re-done this morning. I really don’t want to.