Precisely what I’m doing at the moment. But if we’re talking multiple contexts of reception, I won’t be doing it by the time you read this. I may be in the pub, in the shower or just sitting in the sun, trying to decide what to do next and musing on the UK as a country whose collective mood remains umbilically connected to the weather. To explore the context of production a little further, this post won’t be completed in one pass. I have, for example, just interrupted it for boiled eggs and toast, and to discuss the fact that we appear to need a new toaster ’cos the one we have currently has decided spontaneously to burn all bread, regardless of the setting it’s on. Coolio. I’m also saving this post periodically as a draft on my phone, partly because I’m trying to give the Blackberry WordPress app I’m using a good test. I know how to live.
And now I’m back outside, having taken a brief jaunt in the car, embarking possibly somewhat impetuously on a second paragraph. The fence I painted yesterday looks newly protected from future elements, sealed by Ron, proud and defiant in the now intermittent midday sun. The outdoor socket I installed at the start of last year’s summer holiday is being obscured by the foliage of a plant I don’t know the name of and that hasn’t come into flower this year yet. But I know it’s there and available, silently proffering its electrons to an audience of one, secure in its leafy microcosm.
The street has more of a weekday, businesslike feel to it, compared with the frenetic, hot holiday mood of yesterday. I’m conscious of being sheltered from the rhythms of weekday life by the presence of a school holiday. For this I am grateful, but teachers do need it, for regrouping and replenishing, so they do. Somewhat like childbirth, it’s a job that you can’t relate to unless you actually do it. The empathically motivated image of passing a bowling ball through your bowels doesn’t really cut it. My brother has commented in the past that the supermarkets put extra offers on beer during school holidays. I think he’s right. Just got up to give a needed water boost to a plant ironically located underneath the hose reel. I was also somehow impelled to put a couple more items in the dishwasher. Somehow. The vicissitudes of life call for the hanging out of a newly washed sleeping bag, and the wind is up. Needed to check whether this app can add categories to posts. It so can. This one belongs in “stream”. Virginia Woolf stirs briefly in her grave, considers whether to turn, and presses the snooze button.
Over the last few years, I’ve noticed that the UK pub trade appears to be dying. Where they survive, it’s because they have basically become restaurants or because they cling tenaciously to a locally sourced sub-culture who see the pub as a respite from the mine of domesticity (I credit my mum for that phrase). There are some exceptions, notably city centres, notably London, notably pubs located near workplaces that never sleep, notably Smithfield market.
Check back soon y’all. It’s all about the borrowing of idioms. Not that I ever intend to give them back.