Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter

Life, Writing

Day 137

There are juvenile thrushes in the trees. They scream continuously and are scaring the older cat who likes to come down to the bottom of the garden to drink out of the shallow butler sink (which we filled with fresh water yesterday because there’s been no rain to speak of). They are probably the same that were digging around in the vegetable patch before M built the chicken wire cages to protect her precious veggies (and the way the UK is going, they’ll be very precious, though not much help to this last living carnivore). Juvenility has some advantages, mainly the feeling of immortality, but it’s very noisy and annoying. Was I like that when I was a juvenile? I think not – books and sport, that was about it. I was too shy to make the first move with girls.

The flies that are coming into the study are irritating the hell out of me, too. I’m keeping the door and windows open because it’s very warm – it was 27C in here yesterday evening which, although delightful, was a bit too much.

Yesterday, I found out that a dear friend of mine is off work with severe depression again. I texted them (and texted is the correct grammar for those of you who insist on using “text” as the past tense, which is just plain disgusting and wrong) to say I wouldn’t pester them but they knew where I was if they needed me. I think that’s the best approach to take because a constant presence can really be counterproductive, no matter how understanding you think you’re being. One fits all is certainly not a course to be contemplated when friends are in poor mental health.

It’s Norwegian Independence Day today, the second we’re celebrating in the new house. I like it here, honestly, but I miss Norway with every part of my being, despite the fact that there was a very vocal and significant minority of people over there who were just as xenophobic as the British anti-immigrant right-wing brigade. We must never normalise white and nationalist supremacists. And for those who ask me why I’m celebrating a country’s National Day, I never perceived there to be anything inherently jingoistic about this day in Norway. What I did notice was that too much pressure was put on people to join in the marches of celebration. Doesn’t stop me missing the place.

I meander. I’m running dreadfully late today, although I got up early because a skip was being delivered (which then didn’t arrive until mid-morning). Lots of time-sensitive day job admin I needed to get sorted, too, because yesterday’s technological shenanigans had an adverse impact there, too.

And now I’m here, and the day is almost halfway through, and despite the recent self-care and breathing deeply, and making time, I still wish I could get away with sleeping no more than 3 or 4 hours a night so I could get more stuff done. I even did a test recording for some spoken word work yesterday evening (though I wasn’t really happy with it – there’s a thin line between enunciation and stilted delivery and incomprehensible mumbles). Project, project.

This year is flashing by. How I ever found the time to play cricket is beyond me. And this year, I may well not need to find the time.




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