Today I had good hair (for some of the day). This rarely happens. It can't be planned, as any form of intervention (applicances or 'product') is guaranteed to be spectacularly counterproductive. (Good news, because quite frankly I am too damn lazy to do anything other than wash it and comb it.) But today - possibly because of some strange alchemy born of damp air and violent winds - I caught sight of my reflection in a shop window and my hair was definitely, definitely Syd Barrett-ish (early era - before the drugs had done their worst). In my book, this is a GOOD THING (I am not, nor will ever be, a proper lady.) The heating and oppressive atmosphere of a few City firms put paid to my look - by 4pm I was distinctly limp and bedraggled. But for one glorious moment, the planets aligned and I was Barrett-ish.
Two more jobs to go, and then my work calendar is done for the year. I fully intend to retreat and hibernate. Like a spent bulb, beneath a blanket of earth, slowly restoring reserves of energy. I will need books, and films, and walks, and clean air. Some historical ruins. Possibly a ghost story or two. Good smells. (Anything cooking in wine and garlic. Smoke. Flowers. Rain.) Stupid amounts of sleep. Time to fritter. Broad margins.
I wish I was eight again, so I could read 'The Children of Green Knowe' for the very first time. I remember lying in bed, reading and reading, retreating into a world of ebony mice and ghost children. All contained in the walls of an ancient house - solid and safe, but alive with magic. The writer, Lucy Boston, used her own house as inspiration - the Manor, Hemmingford Grey. You can visit it. I'm going to.
In my head I'm eight. On my head I'm Syd.
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