Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter

Life, Politics, Writing

Day 113

Imagine my surprise and delight when, last night at just before half past nine, I saw an email come in from my local Conservative MP, Chloe Smith, finally responding to my email asking her if she still supported Boris Johnson as Prime Minister of the UK, and asking her if it was acceptable for him to lie to Parliament. Now, either she and her team were working really late, or they had just scheduled emails to go out after they’d left the office so that they wouldn’t have to respond to the flood of responses asking why the email did nothing but repeat a blog post they’d put up at half past two yesterday afternoon. Naturally, I have respectfully replied to her this morning, telling her that she is entitled to her view, and pointing out that in no way does her email/blog post address the issue of the Prime Minister lying to Parliament. I also pointed out to her that no MP who supports a liar will get a favourable hearing at the next election. I sincerely hope she will get voted out in 2024 (although I have to admit that the great British public has a very fallible memory). Enough of this.

Trying to rebuild some strength in my back to support the 5E acupuncture treatment I’m having, I went for what, in view of recent history, could be interpreted as a quick walk yesterday afternoon. By yesterday evening, obviously weakened by my astonishment at getting a response from Chloe Smith, my legs felt heavy and weary, and my back was aching a touch. Just goes to show how out of shape I’ve got in the last four injury-ridden weeks. I have doubled the number of back stretches I do twice a day, and am constantly trying to think of new back strengthening exercises – and considering going back to Pilates classes for the first time in over 25 years. It is a constant source of disappointment to me that bodies wear out so easily with age. Roll on the age of body transplants. Not really.

Grey and overcast and windy this morning. The English weather always manages to enthusiastically take with both hands what it has grudgingly given with one hand. The more pessimistic amongst us may well say that we’ve had our summer now, what with, miraculously, having had a warm and sunny Easter weekend. For there not to be rain on two successive bank holidays is indeed an unexpected and unusual miracle for this insipid island we live on. And how typically English of me to write about the weather. At least I didn’t start with it. Someone once said to me that the English talk so much about the weather because otherwise they’d have nothing to talk about because they’re so repressed they never talk of anything of significance. My depression is obviously borne of aeons of English repression. Maybe that’s why I always feel better mentally and physically when I’m not on this septic island.




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