At ten to midnight last night, I finally punched holes in all the printouts of this blog and put them into the lever arch folder M got for me a few weeks ago. I gave up cutting it up and sticking it in my journal months ago because it was taking up too much space and made handwriting into the journal a perilous activity (well, there’s perilous and then there’s just inconvenient, but you get my drift). and I was doing it because, once again, I’d gone to bed on a Sunday night, been almost asleep when something or other set my mind racing, and I was wide awake again. Part of me thinks that perhaps this is because late on a Sunday is my only real alone time, or maybe it’s the time when my mind gathers itself for the week ahead and all the to do lists in the world start dancing around in my head. The other thing last night was that fully-formed Greek words were swirling around my brain, even if I didn’t know what some of them meant (and some of them I did know the meaning of). Earlier in the day, M had laughed when I spoke some Greek, because I was talking it in a Norwegian accent. I am the Tower of Babylon. Mixing metaphors again.
I started this at 07:45, thinking I’d get it done before I started work. No such luck. It’s now gone 13:00, and I have a few seconds to type what I’m just typing.
Just as I was thinking of unretiring myself from cricket because the lads were one person short and all out for 24 on Saturday, my back has decided to play up (a message from the gods?), adding to the discomfort in my feet. Old age is a bummer, I tell you. And why do I sound so damn upbeat? I’m meant to be a miserable writer type; mad poet in the garret etc etc. The truth of course is that I am most of the time. Ask M. She has to live with me (well, she doesn’t, but she does).
The day has migrated further towards evening now, past my official day job end time. Most of the afternoon I’ve been in calls and zooms, all interesting, and all chatty, because when you deal with death and misery as part of your day job every day, it’s important to have chat, and to be open and honest, because, seriously, otherwise it just wouldn’t work.
Last thing – I’ve had so many compliments about yesterday’s poem. Thank you, all of those who’ve messaged me. It’s good to know my words do matter.
AGGIE’S ART OF HAPPINESS – CHAPTER 187
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