Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter

Life, Sport

Day 143

I overslept this morning. I blame midnight adrenalin. We went to bed at quarter to midnight. I was about 10 seconds rom falling asleep (I know these things) when there was a clatter outside our room and M jumped out of bed and ran to the top of the stairs. A had tripped down the last step before the ground floor, but no damage done. I started, as you would, with those fatherly instincts of letting your wife do everything as far as children are concerned, exchanged a few mumbled words about glass not being broken with M, and turned over again. Except I couldn’t get back to sleep. So I did what I always do – waited for sleep, tried to find my safe place. Nothing. My body was shaking with midnight adrenalin. So I got up again, A and M asleep by now (how do they do that?), crept downstairs, poured myself another small glass of wine, got a packet of savoury snacks, and carried on reading Mayflies by Andrew O’Hagan (which is a classic so far) until 1:15 this morning. This time I did find my safe place and its white fence. Sleep. And when my alarm went off at 7 I really couldn’t be bothered to get up, so turned it off and fell asleep again. M has all this week off, and she got up earlier than me. I tumbled out of bed at about 8, my nose hurting. To have a great big spot fermenting on your nose when you’re in your sixties is annoying. Ah, the romance of a writer’s life.

It’s raining now. An irritation. I don’t care that we need it. I need sun and light and warmth. At least I have one of them.

Yesterday was remarkably productive. While M mist coated the new room, I wrote a day job briefing paper, mowed the lawn, moved a load of rubbish into the bin, wrote my blog, went for a long and sweaty walk in my shorts to avoid the emotional trauma of listening to the football on the radio, felt the dagger of disappointment in my heart that Liverpool didn’t win the Premier League, wrote the letters I wanted to write (which I must remember to post today), cried with A about the end of a season in which she has found friendship and a great team of colleagues (and bar customers) at Norwich City, likened it to the start of High School Musical 3 (seriously, and if you’ve never watched the first 10 or 20 minutes of it, and love sport, and have been in a team, go watch it, and if you don’t cry you’ve never been in a real team), and sighed at eternal endings. At least we have hope of new beginnings every time something ends. Even life.

Perhaps that’s why I feel out of sorts this morning. Despite my young neighbour K standing on one of his planters this morning to stick his head over the fence, the day he got back from his delayed honeymoon, and calling me darling. Nice chat, espresso and fag in hand (me – he’s clean(ish) living). A and M thought it was all very cute. We have been very fortunate with our neighbours here in this new place.

Lending editorial support to people. Writing more lyrics. Thinking about how I have, essentially, less than a month to finish The Mortality Code. Wondering where Aggie is going. Not entirely certain when my next therapy is. Looking forward to acupuncture tomorrow. The sound of a movie clicking along the projector’s wheel. Flickering pictures.




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