Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter

Life, Writing

Day 65

Another fragmentary. I’m copyrighting that noun.

A miniature daffodil has come out in the garden.

I spend too much time writing these posts.

My mind is perpetually racing with hat I should write.

I should spend a maximum 30 minutes doing this, including the Aggie chapters.

It’s too windy again.

I spoke with M last night about my mind racing, and she said I should stop if it’s become a chore.

More like a curse. In some ways.

And stop spell and grammar checking.

Spend more time reading and baking.

Today, I will make a start on tidying up the study. It’s a wreck, and I’m sure that’s making me feel discomfited, too.

And the damn war.

I still haven’t figured out the system for the perpetual calendar M got me years ago. So every morning I spend minutes guessing at where the numbers are that I need.


An episode I wrote down in the family WhatsApp yesterday: I took Madge (my 1966 Spitfire) for a short drive yesterday – she’d been parked on our lovely neighbours’ drive for almost a week after the building here started. As I parked her up at the local hypermarket, a grey-haired woman left her car (with the boot open) and came across to me. ‘I’ve not seen one of these for ages,’ she said. ‘There can’t be many of them left.’ ‘About 200 in the UK,’ I said. It turns out that she and her husband used to run a business which repaired and raced classic minis. We talked about the guilt I feel when I have to leave Madge out in the open air rather than in a garage, and that, no matter how well-fitting car covers are, they always blow off. ‘You don’t still fix classic cars, do you?’ I said. She shook her head. ‘My husband died three years ago.’ ‘Oh no! I’m so sorry,’ I said. And I asked her how long they’d been married. ‘Almost 50 years,’ she said, and looked very sad. ‘Her name is Madge,’ I said, feeling she needed to be introduced to this wonderful car (which speaks to me when I’m driving her; honestly), feeling that it might cheer her up again. And she did smile, and patted Madge’s boot, and said “A very suitable name for a car like this.’ I told her it had made my day, meeting her, and she smiled back, thanked me, and walked off. Part of me wished I’d asked for her name and contact details. The other part of me decided it was best to have her in my life just for long enough to make me happy, and to carry her sadness and smile with me forever.

We all need small joys.





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