Day 208: Union Jack-Off

This morning my run takes me past the little primary school behind St Michael's church.  Jubilee has come early.  Red, white and blue abounds - on faces, hats, and trays of luridly-iced fairy cakes.  A small girl is having trouble with her fascinator - a frankly camp Union Jack mini top hat, rakishly attached to a hairband. 

Small girl (weeping):  Nooo!  It's not RIGHT.  I can't go in 'til it's on right!

Mum (quietly desperate):  Darling, I really HAVE to go to work...

Daughter wins; Mum loses (fascinator 1; corporate duty 0).

Random knitting nan

This afternoon, I see a group of nans all wearing knitted rosettes.  Massive floppy cabbages of wool (red, white and blue - obvs) pinned to lapels.  I wonder whether they are being gladly worn, or whether one nan (the one who knits, but shouldn't) has imposed her work on all the others (suspect the latter).  I like the rosettes.  Handmade, slightly wrong-looking, and defiantly original. 

Small girl loses; knitting nan wins (fascinator 0; wool cabbage 1).  Pecking order restored.

Day 207: Bin Troll

Involved?

Today the vegetable peelings bin in the kitchen smells like a troll has taken a shit in it.  It has NEVER been this bad before.  Hot weather?  Rogue matter?  It's repulsive - a reason to avoid breathing, rather than to keep on.  But at the same time it is so flamboyantly bad, that there's a compulsive grandeur to it.  This is a new level of bad. 

I'm dealing with it right now.  The unspeakable bin contents have been shrouded in newspaper and buried in the compost bin outside.  But the troll shit presence is still very strong in the kitchen, even though the backdoor is open for ventilation. 

GHI sense a 'presence'

I have asked it respectfully to leave, and let it know that the time has come to move on.

Tomorrow I may have to burn incense.  If that fails, it may be time for GHI.  Or a priest.  Or both.

Day 206: No Name; No Label

This morning I am with actuaries.  This afternoon, I'm at a computer games company.  You might imagine that the people at the computer games company will be more fun.  Far from it.

I've noticed this before.   Jobs at 'creative' agencies often evidence more tightly-wound and controlling behaviour than creative.  When something becomes an intrinsic part of your job-description, it often floats further and further away from the day-to-day reality. 

Beard Amateur

Years ago, I read a D H Lawrence essay on the nature of love that really struck a chord with me.  The main message was that the minute you commit to loving something, you invariably love it a little bit less. 

As with work.  As an amateur, you do the thing you love.  Amateur literally translates as 'lover'.  The minute you are paid to do something, you are a 'professional'.  Which means more of a commitment. You 'become' that thing (a lawyer/golfer/actor), and often you love it a little bit less.

Not always the case.  There are the rare birds who can span amateur AND professional.

Spanners.    

Day 205: Burn or Walk?

Sometimes a day comes along where you feel strongly that you are in the wrong place.  Today I also have that itchy feeling that I have experienced ever time I am about to burn my boats and bridges, and walk.  This is how it starts - the itchiness.  Which builds and builds until the final moment comes, which is like stepping off a cliff and free-falling.  When I know I'm going to jump, and there is NOTHING I can do, because some other part of me is in control. 

I've experienced this about eight times in my life.  It's exhilarating, and the outcome is invariably necessary, but I recognise that although there's part of me that likes throwing all the cards up in the air, it's foolhardy.  I could just choose to take a different path before pushing things to the cliff-edge.  Walk away, but keep access to the boats and the bridges.  In the knowledge that I may never have to use them again, but I could if I needed. 

This is what I choose to take from today.  Watch this space.  Will I burn or have I evolved enough to walk away?

Day 204: Within Tent

The Ark

A visit to the camping shop to buy a tent for next weekend.  I like tents.  And I like camping shops - all the gadgets and the promise of freedom and being outside.  When the weather is good, there is nothing better than living feral for a few days.  Today in the blazing sunshine, it is hard to imagine weather not being good - but I have been to enough trench-foot Glastonburys to know better...

So it's with this in mind that I buy a Vango Ark.  Because if it's an ark, it'll float, right?  

Incidentally, the Vango claims that it will fit 'three men'.  I find this hard to believe.  But I must not forget that Noah apparently managed to fit two of everything in his ark.  So perhaps all arks are just far stretchier than they look.

Let it rain.  I've got flotation and expansion capabilities.    

Day 203: Lawn and Ball

Deliberate

Finally the encroaching garden becomes too apparent.  Dandelion clocks by the dozen.  Tangled forget-me-nots.  Knee high grass.  The brick-encircled round lawn is invisible and the Ball Bush (as it is known) has rejected its identity, sprouting wild dreadlocks. 

To my shame, it takes less than two hours to make a significant difference.  Aggressive strimming reveals lawn; assertive trimming reveals Ball.  Grass edged; bricks exposed.  Against a few clearly defined critical elements, the contrasting overgrown borders suddenly seem deliberate and artful.  Yes, I am Gertrude Jekyll/Vita Sackville-West, and yes, this is 'drift' planting.  As I poke around, I find lost herbs.  Marjoram, oregano, mint, thyme, rosemary, sage, chives (I am now Jamie Oliver).  Tony from next door sticks his head over the fence to ask how I keep my acer flourishing (I morph into Alan Titchmarsh).  I am tempted to say 'mulch and crooning' but admit that it's luck and survival-of-the-fittest.  No space for the needy.  Not in this garden. 

Maximum satisfaction for minimal effort.  Lawn and Ball.  That's all that's needed.  Everything else can look after itself. 

(NB - this picture is someone else's Lawn/Ball combo.  Mine is more structural-yet-relaxed.)

Day 202: Leaving Canary

Every time I go to Canary Wharf I am delighted to leave.  Too much steel, and glass and self-importance. 

That's all I have to say.