We had just about decided to withdraw the old house from the market place for a while when up turns a woman with two children (about the same ages as ours were when we moved here) who seems to want to buy it. She wants to make sure first, however, that she can have an extension built onto the back. I know I should shrug at this but can’t push from my mind that it will be pretty rough on the neighbours, living cheek by jowl as we do, having new people and a temporary building site to get used to. On the other hand, it’s exactly what we might have done at some point if we’d had the money.
I have noticed that the new wave of incomers here don’t seem short of a bob or two, cluttering up the village centre with their 4 x 4s, opening up antique shops and children’s toyshops that only people like them can afford to patronise, employing the local girls (my daughter when she was here) and sacking them the week after for wearing the wrong kind of jeans, not realising that what goes around comes around and the one you sacked or bad-mouthed last week is very likely to be the barmaid you just ordered your vodka and cranberry from. Anyway, I ramble. I am feeling unsettled, have continuous headaches and cannot read the signs. I am dealing with this by eating too many biscuits, and they are not even the biscuits I really want because I would either have to make those or go and get them from a specialist baker which I can’t be bothered to do, so it’s just Maryland cookies, which is better than a poke in the eye, I suppose. One musn’t grumble – though why the hell not on one’s own blog I can’t think.
So what else is wrong? Well nothing, really. I have lost the plot again with writing focus and even my doppelganger seems to have gone quiet on me, but tomorrow – headache or not – I plan to inhabit the delectable garden studio that has been neglected of late and go back to the shocking pink notebook that has also been neglected and write my way into a better frame of mind with caffeine, pink pills and cookies, whatever it takes. And lest I should fall into miserable speculations along the lines of I am a talentless pretender with nothing to say, or if I have then I’ve forgotten, I will remind myself of the night out I had in Brighton on Sunday, and the bottle of wine I won on account of one of my verses (task being to compose a love “ode” to someone by the name of Nicola) which went something like :
You wouldn’t pickle ‘er,
but catch a glimpse of lovely Nicola
you’d wish that you could drink and bottle ‘er.
Now give me the wine or I’ll throttle yer!
- and has a kind of kick to it, I think. Even though I say it myself as shouldn’t.