Monday, 28 April 2014
325. Treasure from a charity shop
On Friday my friend Katie and I found treasure in the charity shop in Aldeburgh. We'd done culture, by way of trundling over the pebbles to Maggi Hambling's shell, and were on our way to lunch when we stopped by the shop. She found a very elegant porcelain coffee pot that she liked enough to carry back to Edinburgh. I found an old but perfect metal water canteen in a little pouch that attaches to your knapsack or belt, and a pair of beautiful, expensive binoculars, perfect working condition, all caps still present, in a small green bag. Bounty! How much, you ask. Plus a novel Katie told me I had to buy - all in for £15. No, I will not tell you which charity shop.
323. Tuna salad sandwiches
I know, I'm not supposed to eat tuna. But I do, a bit, because it's so delicious and also because if I gave up doing everything enjoyable for the sake of the planet I'd never do anything, eat anything or go anywhere and I'd still bloody well die of cancer so fuck it, I say.
Tuna salad sandwiches are the perfect home-worker lunch and, when followed by an apple, nutritious, too.
Tuna salad sandwiches are the perfect home-worker lunch and, when followed by an apple, nutritious, too.
322. Fly-fishing
My dearest lovely brother gave me a fly-fishing lesson for my birthday last year. I had my lesson on the 2nd of April and am now fully obsessed.
My dad taught me to fish with a fly and we did most of our fishing together in Ireland. We'd stand beside beautiful clear loughs fishing for brown trout, and rivers fishing for brownies and salmon. Occasionally, I'd catch one and yell for my dad, who'd come rushing over to help me play, land and kill the fishy in a way that showed the fish the maximum respect. My dad had taught himself to fish, which is bloody clever because it's bloody tricky to do right, let alone well, and he always caught beautiful big fishes. We were very happy out fishing together, me and dad, and now when I stand on the riverbank by myself his spirit stands beside me.
It's a decent pastime for the middle-aged writer, fly-fishing, because it is active without requiring exertion and demanding without being impossible. So I intend to be doing it for many years, and, in the fullness of time, will happily teach anybody who cares to come to the water with me.
My dad taught me to fish with a fly and we did most of our fishing together in Ireland. We'd stand beside beautiful clear loughs fishing for brown trout, and rivers fishing for brownies and salmon. Occasionally, I'd catch one and yell for my dad, who'd come rushing over to help me play, land and kill the fishy in a way that showed the fish the maximum respect. My dad had taught himself to fish, which is bloody clever because it's bloody tricky to do right, let alone well, and he always caught beautiful big fishes. We were very happy out fishing together, me and dad, and now when I stand on the riverbank by myself his spirit stands beside me.
It's a decent pastime for the middle-aged writer, fly-fishing, because it is active without requiring exertion and demanding without being impossible. So I intend to be doing it for many years, and, in the fullness of time, will happily teach anybody who cares to come to the water with me.
321. Bonjela
Effing hurts. Almost as much as old-fashioned pink Germolene did, but in your mouth not on your scabby, bleeding knee therefore significantly more intimate and tear-inducing. Best thing about it is that it's an anaesthetic as well as a pain-killer so you lose all sensation on your tongue for a bit.
Wednesday, 22 January 2014
320. Being home alone
Sh! There's nobody else here but I'm a bit tipsy and if you make too much noise the grown-ups will hear us and become annoying.
Why have you had slightly too much to drink? SHH!
Quietly. Sh.
I have because I am home alone for the night and I met my new friends at the pub and they are so nice and interesting and easy to talk to that I had at least fourteen glasses of wine and now I'm home and everything's feelin' kinda loose and easy-like. How 'bout you? Fuck off, I'm fine. Wait, whazzat? Sh. Wha'?
And now it's five past midnight and I'm still up!
SHHHH!
'S fun. Havin' new friens. Whazzat'?
Sh.
Why have you had slightly too much to drink? SHH!
Quietly. Sh.
I have because I am home alone for the night and I met my new friends at the pub and they are so nice and interesting and easy to talk to that I had at least fourteen glasses of wine and now I'm home and everything's feelin' kinda loose and easy-like. How 'bout you? Fuck off, I'm fine. Wait, whazzat? Sh. Wha'?
And now it's five past midnight and I'm still up!
SHHHH!
'S fun. Havin' new friens. Whazzat'?
Sh.
Tuesday, 21 January 2014
317-9 New friends, a moonlit walk, a chance encounter
OK, so as this blog has now beyond any doubt assumed the character and form of Fat Uncle Al who won't leave the dance floor - I'm gon' start mashin' things up.
Five months in the village and we've just in the last couple of weeks met some friends. It's always a pleasure to meet people you like, and as you get older that moment becomes rarer, and when you move to a small village you assume (probably wrongly) that you'll meet even fewer like-minded people.
So tonight I was in the Walb alone, and I arranged to meet our new friends in the not-posh pub for a quick pint. And my shabby typing will tell you that I was still there at nearly 11. Pished and happy. I walked my companion-in-alcohol home and walked up the back lane with my phone in one hand and my super-butch torch in the other. (Some London habits are hard to break, namely the habit of assuming (correctly) that if you walk down a dark street with your phone out you'll be mugged.) Anyway, finished the call, walked up the road, flashed the super-bright torch across the road, down the ginnel we take to the beach.
And here's where we leave the rest behind. Because there, in the insolent glare of my posh torch, was a beautiful muntjac deer. I could see his antlers and the beautiful kohl stripes across his cheeks, and his sudden panic at being caught. He was only ten paces from the road, so maybe I did him a favour, and I paused only because I couldn't believe that I had been so lucky, but I soon came to mind and snuffed the light and left him to his nocturnal ramble.
Most of the wildlife I've stumbled upon while we've been here has been dead. I can't count the number of bird, rabbit and general vermin corpses I've walked past in the past five months. But I've seen live deer in passing - along Palmer's Lane, and I've seen them on the train line at Darsham – but tonight I caught him completely by chance. He was late, I was late, I was showing off my torch, he was showing off, accidentally, his ridiculous, heart-filling beauty. That's all really. I saw him because I am lucky enough to live here, and have friends to meet at the pub, and a torch that's bright. I hope he found the food he was looking for, and he was careful of the road, and that he lives to bring, on another dark night, sudden, glorious, fizz-popping joy to the eyes and mind and heart of another slightly tipsy human bean in genuine need of wonder and inspiration.
Five months in the village and we've just in the last couple of weeks met some friends. It's always a pleasure to meet people you like, and as you get older that moment becomes rarer, and when you move to a small village you assume (probably wrongly) that you'll meet even fewer like-minded people.
So tonight I was in the Walb alone, and I arranged to meet our new friends in the not-posh pub for a quick pint. And my shabby typing will tell you that I was still there at nearly 11. Pished and happy. I walked my companion-in-alcohol home and walked up the back lane with my phone in one hand and my super-butch torch in the other. (Some London habits are hard to break, namely the habit of assuming (correctly) that if you walk down a dark street with your phone out you'll be mugged.) Anyway, finished the call, walked up the road, flashed the super-bright torch across the road, down the ginnel we take to the beach.
And here's where we leave the rest behind. Because there, in the insolent glare of my posh torch, was a beautiful muntjac deer. I could see his antlers and the beautiful kohl stripes across his cheeks, and his sudden panic at being caught. He was only ten paces from the road, so maybe I did him a favour, and I paused only because I couldn't believe that I had been so lucky, but I soon came to mind and snuffed the light and left him to his nocturnal ramble.
Most of the wildlife I've stumbled upon while we've been here has been dead. I can't count the number of bird, rabbit and general vermin corpses I've walked past in the past five months. But I've seen live deer in passing - along Palmer's Lane, and I've seen them on the train line at Darsham – but tonight I caught him completely by chance. He was late, I was late, I was showing off my torch, he was showing off, accidentally, his ridiculous, heart-filling beauty. That's all really. I saw him because I am lucky enough to live here, and have friends to meet at the pub, and a torch that's bright. I hope he found the food he was looking for, and he was careful of the road, and that he lives to bring, on another dark night, sudden, glorious, fizz-popping joy to the eyes and mind and heart of another slightly tipsy human bean in genuine need of wonder and inspiration.
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