Another long break on writing for which I apologise once again.
I am on the way back from a short weekend at Walsingham with the parish. The bus was significantly delayed on picking us up back from there, and I dread tomorrow morning.
Whilst I was not leading the group I feel like I need time on my own. Not to hear at every moment someone’s opinion on this or that. I am not complaining – I like hearing what people think about experienced I enjoy – but I am drained.
I look forward to a bit of solitude on the mundane. Solitude that doesn’t have to be on my own, mind you, but with my beloved. The silent understanding of each others needs. The nods and acknowledgements. The offers for tea and gin
The solitude of the spirit, accompanied by the beloved.
What more can I ask for?
I am watching some sort of programme about mayonnaise. How it’s made, and all that.
I have little interest for it, as I don’t care much for mayo. Apparently lots of people care a lot.
I am on the other side in another hotel tonight. Waiting for the 19:30 table reservation and on my final night (and the full day tomorrow) before getting finally home.
The view out of the window leads to an uninteresting flat roof and emergency exit. Does not beat the Tesco and green view from last night as I barely get to see the sky from the bed.
All in all, I wish I was home.
Tonight is the first night I am spending away from home since a few weeks. It is however the first night I am spending on my own, without my beloved, but with my insecurities and my fears.
It doesn’t take long to recognise what we have quickly learned to get used to. And yet we forget, in an instant, when we are reunited.
We forget what we mean to each other. To what depths we grow accustomed to our presence and how quickly we realise that we could have spent another five minutes there. Another “I love you” muttered to the closing door. A further one to the white varnish of the door, as if it cared. The bouncing back of the echo, the words repeated back to me in the dark. The lash text message before the final goodnight.
Just one more.
No. You’re gone.
I will not feel you tonight. I will know you’re there, distant, and yet absent. Your warmth will be a memory as you are far away and it will be bleakly replaced by the genetic aircon at the local premier Inn.
The intimate joy of you, replaced by the comfortable predictability of the hotel chain. The homely comfort exchanged by the uncomfortable standard, known yet unwanted. Sufficient yet realising your absence.
Tonight I am on my own. For the first time since February. Four, five months, not alone.
Goodnight my love.
I will see you soon.
I am available to start working immediately.
I have several seasons of experience in the fluid burrowing market and I am an accomplished burrow agent. I am definitely not biased against other races of animals, especially birds and/or otters. I have an extensive portfolio of successful digs and finds, including the garden here, the other garden over there, and that other garden that way. I am also not limited by geography, easily travelling over 150 miles in my fuel efficient paws.
My previous employers include Foxton’s, Otter & Co, Twitter, GroundB&B and Underground Lettings.
I am proficient at Microfox Excel and Word, and can work my way around Outlook. I prefer Firefox to Chrome (obviously).
I am an animal person, clean, and I have been described as a decent party animal. Happy to work twilight hours and the graveyard shift. Recent infection of Sarcoptes scabiei has been successfully treated and is not contagious.
I am, like my averages, a little bigger than the average pet cat.
References available upon request however may need letter of recommendation as my bank account was recently shut due suspicious activity.
★☆☆☆☆ one star: I cut myself with the knife. Some blood. My knees felt weak. I cried. One star.
★★☆☆☆ two stars: The onions made me cry so much that I cut myself. My knees felt weak. Cried. Two stars.
★★★☆☆ three stars: Managed to prepare a meal with this knife. It was alright but the knife was too shiny for my liking. My knees felt weak after so much effort cooking. Cried. We ate a nice meal. Three stars.
★★★★☆ four stars: Managed to prepare a decent meal for a friend on my own. Whilst the knife was sharp this allowed for some accidents to happen with the knife. Knife was also shiny so I managed to play light tricks with my friend (possibly what ended up causing the cut!) – had a blast and ended up crying on the floor after so much laughter and my knees going weak. Not sure if this was due onion producing a large amount of syn-propanethial-S-oxide or whether it was because I was having too much fun! Meal was just about, but I had fun preparing it with this knife. Four stars.
★★★★★ five stars: Knife arrived as advertised: ideal for onion cutting, shiny. I managed to cut myself, but he was there for me after a profuse bleed. I looked at his reflection on the knife and I played tricks with the light, shining it onto his eyes. We remembered how long it had been since we last played like this. We remembered a time when I was sent to detention for playing light tricks like this on the maths teacher with a gold medallion of sorts. We laughed. We reminisced. We went back in time, to an easier time in our lives. I remembered that I always wanted to say those things to you, but I never managed to formulate the right words at the right time, or when the time came I was never able to break the silence. We stared into each other. You saw me cry, and you hugged. I could not hold it anymore and I told you how I felt. My knees trembled, having been released from the burden of the secret I carried with me for the last few decades. You held me. We sat on the floor, and we both cried. We confessed our feelings to each other, realising that they were mirrored. We drank (the knife helped removing the cap on the wine bottle) and we eventually ate the meal. It was passable – well below my standards – but the company was worth it. The company was everything. You said “yes”. We will now have two of everything. If you want to buy this knife, send me a message. Five stars.
The Moon is an unnecessary fork. I have been pondering the nature of the Moon.
I made the terrible mistake of asking my best friend what did he think of the Moon.
This caused an argument – a terrible one, at that – which ended up in him storming out and slamming the door. The thunderous earthquake that followed, whilst his steps crushed the gravel on the driveway, will be for ever imprinted in my memory. The stream of colourful insults and swear words adorned the night sky. The moonless, night sky.
He has been gone now for 20 years. I never heard back from him after our disagreement. I recall his opinion, strong as daylight, that the moon was, in fact, a knife. That it would cut through the night like butter. I disagreed – how could this be, when the moon was eaten – daily at that! – by the Sun? Wasn’t it more like cheese, ready to melt at the slightest hint of heat? To hide away in the brightness of the sun?
I miss my friend. I wish I had never asked the question. I wish I had kept my opinions about the moon to myself. Knife, cheese, what does it matter?
My friend has been on the moon. I ate cheese last night.
I am trying to write more.
To simply, increase the total output of what I am currently producing.
I have this feeling, this anxiety, of having to do more with every hour. However, only that of the utmost quality is “good enough”.
At the end of the day, this extreme high aim leads me to think a lot about producing, and not producing enough. The unrealistic expectations that I impose upon myself are a mountain I need to climb. A desert I need to cross. A sea that needs draining.
I can either do that by, simply, not doing anything at all (which, in a way, I have been doing for a while!) or by producing a little bit every day, regardless of the quality. In fact, not thinking of the quality at all! Whilst this may not generate the best content evs, at least it should get me used to. For added challenge, this post has added a little game: every paragraph on this post has doubled the word count on the previous paragraph. I may keep this for a few days, I may not.
Once again I apologise for the silence. Life tends to squeeze everything out of us and, as like with the grass growing in cracks on concrete, it tends to find a way.
A way into everything we do, and a way to stop us from doing what we enjoy. Writing, for instance, or simply living life.
Sometimes one is too busy with life to enjoy life itself. We get too embroiled into surviving that we forget about the long term of happiness.
It has been a difficult time since the last post. Legal challenges have faced me, which have taken their toll in money and in sanity. In missed meals and in anxiety on what will happen next.
Some people will never handle disappointment. They will struggle with the fact that they have been wronged in some way and therefore that the only possible response is revenge. A mindless, destructive path to obtain something that cannot be obtained by money, violence or legal action.
Only self-awareness, a discovery of what lies within, can mend the harm received.
And yet, we beat ourselves up for the things that could have been done, that would have avoided the drama, and that should have ceased this warpath.
Instead, we forget that life goes on. That time moves forward. That a failure is only as good as what we learn from it.
At least we can learn. We ought to be grateful, as others will never have that chance.
I have the choice of turning left or right on the way back from work.
Left involves going through the main town and, whilst slightly shorter, may delay the journey during rush hour, to eventually join the motorway.
Right involves a slightly longer route with lighter traffic, which usually means a shorter journey. It eventually joins the motorway.
I chose the right path and I was stuck on a motorway accident for around an hour. This was just before both options merge again, which means that I could have saved a substantial amount of time by going left instead.
Or the accident could have occurred slightly further down the motorway.
Or I could have been in that accident.
Or a million other possibilities.
I think a motorist died on the accident.
Someone who chose one way instead of the other, or someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or someone who made a series of catastrophic choices, or simply made one fatal one.
It takes little to lose everything, so I am trying to take nothing for granted.
Readers, I want to apologise for my silence.
In a way, several things have happened in life, however I seem to have settled nicely for the time being. I (we) only need to deal with a pair of solicitor bureaus that are simply doing their work. I can’t fault them, they get paid and they gnaw at us. However, I can fault those who have engaged them against us. But that is that, not much I can do at the moment but wait for further instructions.
I read on the news the sad case of an elderly couple. Both in their mid 60’s. She was found dead with a stab wound to her neck, and suffered from dementia, and had been living in a care home. The husband was found seriously injured with a knife injury to his stomach – he survived and is now facing charges of murder against her.
I do not know the case in full, however I understand that he claims that they had a pre-arranged death pact. The wife’s sister has written a “victim personal statement”, option given by the court to the relatives of a deceased.
I can understand why someone would want to have a death pact with their loved ones, especially if their children have fled the nest and they are, mostly, alone.
I can understand how hard it is to live the rest of one’s life on their own. How long do you have? Days? Years? Decades? After a significant relationship, can you survive this time on your own?
I am not sure I would survive.
The news article is here