Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter


Day 225

I just got back from the supermarket (where I fruitlessly searched for some Aperol), and realised I hadn’t written the blog for the day yet. So, while M’s fabulous home-made pizzas sit in the oven, I’m sitting here in my 32C office trying not to melt or to be distracted by everything else that’s going on around me.

Apparently, I spent 9 hours and 7 minutes in the last week doing my Greek lessons. I am learning as I go along, though not as quickly and well as the perfectionist in me would like to. I managed to do a live radio show this morning that we can add to our library of pre-records, mainly for Saturdays, which is when we normally have DJ shortages, or I want a lie-in. And I lay down on the bed in our room, in the lovely through-draught again and read for some time. And then M and I had a lot of fun (not) measuring distances on the library wall (which isn’t straight anyway), and then drilling holes where we thought they should be, and discovering that the wall was made of so many different materials, it was difficult to drill straight. And I forgot drill bits got hot when drilling into masonry, so cursed a bit when I touched the drill bit. Nothing serious. The joys of home improvements. And all because we have such a vast collection of books (but not as vast as it was). But as we all said (M & the children & me), it’s these books that have made us who we are; they’re more our history than anything else..

I had thought about driving down to Stradbroke to watch the lads play cricket, and to pick up the t-shirt and other goodies a grateful artist/band sent me the other day, but in the end decided it it was probably not a great idea (nor a very comfortable one) to sit in a hot car with no A/C for hours. I do miss having a beer or two with the lads after a game, though, not that I’d have been able to have more than one small one if I had gone down there today.

And thus the wheel turns, and thus life changes, and morphs, and different shapes and patterns emerge, and we become slightly different people as the time passes.




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