Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter

Life, Writing

Day 357

It’s always at this time of year that I remember my determination, the previous year, to book the week leading up to next year’s Christmas as holiday, only to realise I have yet again forgotten to do it. I have felt so overwhelmed this week, by work (content and amount), and by the things I want to do (not think I have to do, AR), that it would really have been a good idea not to be working this week. However – what’s done is done, and here we are, the night before Christmas, because, as everyone with any sense knows, Christmas Eve is the real Christmas.

I’ve just spent the last hour or so putting together my herring salad (sweet cure herring without the mustard seeds, boscek, beetroot, onions, apples, cornichons, sour cream, oil, vinegar, beetroot juice). It’s in a big covered bowl in the cold garage right now (poor old Madge is outside), and I’ll taste it tomorrow and see if any more seasoning is needed. So now it is Christmas. All that’s left to do is the wrapping (and I have taken B’s advice and ordered – and received – a load of recyclable gift bags of various sizes). Knowing me, I’ll make a hash of that as well. Being practical has never been my strong suit, although I was very practical during the four years we lived in Norway. Perhaps it’s time to go back.

On the radio this morning, I did nearly descend into tears playing the three best songs that the late Terry Hall had wwitten with Fun Boy Three, The Colourfield, and The Specials. 63 is no age. A year older than me. Often, that’s why I seem in such a hurry to other people – I don’t know how much time there’s left, and there are still a lot of things in my head that need to get out of my head and onto some pages in some shape or another.

I started this over an hour ago, and then quizzes intervened. Life’s like that. My life, anyway. The potential acquisition of knowledge distracts me. I suppose there could be worse distractions.

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