Well, this is ridiculous. It’s so early on Sunday morning it might as well be Saturday night, and I am up and about, raring to go after an astonishing five-hour sleep. I can’t even blame the heat, as it’s nowhere near as hot and humid as it has been of late. I can only blame my enthusiasm for the day ahead, as that’s been the thing to wake me up these past months. Later, my siesta will happen around the time most people are having elevenses, and I’ll probably be heading to bed around the time people are heading out to dinner, if not high tea. Ah well. The day ahead is mine to do with as I will, and I know what I will be doing.
First, though, a cup of tea, and to look through the headlines of a virtual newspaper, exploring the full articles that interest me, sometimes tutting at the stupidity of the world, the gullibility of the masses, or the evil arrogance of old men who know each other and send into combat young men who don’t. Then, it’s a quick glance at the dreaded Facebook to find out what the distant friend of someone I almost met once is up to; to decline an invitation to follow someone I ‘may also know’ and ask, why would I? How would I? and, How would you ever think I’d want to? Through a slew of advertisements for things I either a) don’t want, or b) have only recently bought, and then I’m into the realm of inappropriate suggestions for pages to ‘follow’ as though I were a lemming, posts from groups I’ve never heard of whose interest is so far removed from my own they may as well be on Uranus, and more adverts for those I have just removed and been promised I won’t see again.
A calming cup of tea on the balcony, listening to the is-it-night, is-it-morning roar of the frustrated teen (and often, older man) as he powers his 50cc contraption up the hill thinking it’s a world land-speed record attempt, to treat the amphitheatre of the harbour to the sound of his twin-stroke, moped/lawnmower engine; to stop on the road to chat loudly with a mate; to return to the harbour because he’s forgotten something—his dignity, perhaps? Certainly his sense of community compassion— before having another go, and finally, fading away. By which time, the tea is done, and my mind is set to my morning ramble.
So, off on my commute, across the porch with a new cup of tea, the porch light switched on to deter the bugs, and into the workhouse to spark up the typing machine and my table lamp, which this morning, chooses to flicker and hiss as the bulb goes into its death throws at the only time I don’t have a replacement. I tighten it, and hope, but hope is futile, so I go searching for another just in case, even though I know I don’t have one. Opening drawers like a mime artist in slow motion so I don’t wake up the husband. Creeping around the house and finding nothing but the creakiest floorboard, and the noisiest drawers. Finally deciding to decant the piano anglepoise from the living room to the desk, all of which must be done in silence, and isn’t, and having plugged in the lamp, wonder why I haven’t done it before because it’s so much better.
And from there, I set about my day with this ‘get it out of yer head and who cares’ piece of whatever you are reading, before turning my fuller attention to finishing the first draft of a new story which is racing in at 105,000 words and is ripe for editing. As it’s Sunday, I will only work for six hours instead of the usual seven, and, if I am awake enough, will take a stroll around the village later to have a break and stretch my legs. I’ve been doing this for years, and they’re still short, so that ridiculous theory is clearly a lie. At least it gives me a chance to take some photos (when I remember), like a couple here today. Namely, the sunrise and the neighbour’s bougainvillea. The other picture is a ‘photo from the balcony because I need to put something up’ effort.
And so, to work, perchance to write something decent.
