While the sky remains filled with cold grey blankets, and the cats keep watch on the garden from the warmth of the living room, Spotify fills the study with music from a Paris jazz cafe as I struggle to pour words onto the page in an order that might work well together.
I seem to have happened upon a couple of hours of Sunday afternoon where I might chase my own interests for a change. Of course you find me in front of a keyboard. Of course you do.
I filled the morning with two walks into town in search of a water filter for the kitchen. There would have been only one walk, but I forgot my face mask and only discovered it’s absence after walking most of the mile-long-route through back roads towards the high-street. Cursing my own stupidity, I retraced my steps and returned.
While walking I played out the paradoxical situation where you arrive at a high-street shop that sells masks, wearing no mask, and cannot enter to buy one unless you are wearing one.
While writing, a quite wonderful French singer is singing about… something. I have no idea what he’s singing about because my mastery of the French language extends no further than “I am fourteen years old”, “please may I have a vanilla ice cream”, “two tickets please”, and “I love your dog”. It’s quite nice – listening without understanding – you connect to the emotion, rather than the story.
Rain has begun to fall. Puddles are slowly filling – swimming pools for pond skaters, and atomic bomb targets for toddlers in wellington boots.
I wish I had some chocolate biscuits.