Sunday, December 11, 2011
three levels of difficulty for the sleepless
quietly pouring a fizzy drink by moonlight in the darkened kitchen
whilst
counting the remnant oak leaves fluttering on the tree outside
then
failing to count my remnant virtues on the thumbs of one hand
with
eyes tight shut
whilst
counting the remnant oak leaves fluttering on the tree outside
then
failing to count my remnant virtues on the thumbs of one hand
with
eyes tight shut
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Monday, December 5, 2011
TRILINGUAL ACROSS SEVERAL OCEANS AND CONTINENTS
Yesterday, as I waddled from a posh supermarket towards my bus stop at Clapham Junction with several heavy shopping bags, I was overtaken by a trotting girl who emerged from a phone shop and was laughing in to her mobile phone in a language that might have been Cantonese, BUT, her narrative was frequently punctuated with brilliant mimicry of a South London Jamaican lady that she’d just been arguing with about her phone contract, and she was totally convincing on all levels … vocabulary, syntax, and pronunciation.
Late this morning, in the space of one minute, driving the bright red truck past Sidlow Bridge, I saw a big old buzzard.flapping languidly from one solitary golden oak towards another that stood some way off in a big stubble field, then I disturbed a pair of sparrow hawks who rocketed away in different directions from the tangled hedgerow, and then after I’d blinked, a green woodpecker crossed the road in that swift undulating trajectory that typifies their top-heavy flight attitude.
On the way to Gatwick in near freezing conditions at five thirty this morning, the stars glittered and the space between us and them was filled with newly arriving intercontinental planes stacking and circling for their landing slots at Heathrow and Gatwick, and all their clockwork motions seemed compressed in to a smaller distance, their lights being so clear. When the sky eventually turned orange, the silhouettes of the incoming jets at Gatwick were pure black, even the ones that were dipping and banking fifteen miles away.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Saturday, December 3, 2011
somewhere to relax on the way home ... the cafe in the old ticket hall at queenstown road station
... its a great place to write, the coffee is very good and there's always another train to putney in ten or fifteen minutes
ce matin chez micawber
The Loved One only wakes when I’ve been reading and writing for two hours. She whimpers for tea but her voice is so faint that I fail to hear it through the wall and two intervening doors. She whimpers just slightly more loudly and so I rush to her side, ever attentive ( there’s no soccer on the radio this early on a Saturday ).
She needs a cup of Earl Grey tea. I point out to her the practical advantage of our both owning mobile phones.
Friday, December 2, 2011
three beautiful things
Driving through the mist just before sunrise, after a very rainy night, down the long gentle hill in to the pretty village of Hartfield, on the north side of Ashdown Forest. Each surrounding grey hill, each grey wood, and each of the grey hills and woods that lays beyond them is clearly silhouetted against the morning mist that flows among the folds and valleys. So too, are outlined the roofs of houses and the steeple on the church, even the weather cock is distinguishable in the semi-darkness as the sky shows its first colours. Towards the far end of the village, some teenagers, who I often pass as they wait for their school transport at the bus stop, have seen my truck first and are leaping up and down to greet me, themselves grey silhouettes.
Talking to a laughing customer whose pretty little twin daughters may have inherited his dyslexia. If they also inherit just some of his quick intelligence and razor wit, and his unstoppable energy and infectious optimism, then everything will be alright.
On the hilltops of Ashdown Forest in mid-morning the sky is now very bright, and you can see the undulating line of the South Downs stretching far away towards Hampshire. But the valleys are crowded with dark dripping trees and their colder air remains brim filled with mist and woodsmoke, and a few sunbeams.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)