Some might unkindly think ‘So what’s new?’ but bear with me for a moment
It’s Sunday afternoon, 13.15 of the clock.
I should be down in Gloucestershire having teamed up with Vin and collectively wowed the folks down there with what he and I amusingly (in a sometimes ironic kind of way) call ‘dressage’.
Sometimes what he and I perform bears little relation to the definitions everyone else in the sport have, other times we’re pretty damn good. There doesn’t seem to be a middle ground with Vin and me; we’re either a pair of contenders or we’re the comedy turn.
But today we are neither the pretty damn good nor the ‘Oh my God Laura, what are those two clowns up to’ variety.
Rain stopped play.
Actually, that’s dishonest.
Hartpury has a beautiful indoor arena that would not be out of place in an Olympic venue.
Rain sapped enthusiasm might be a better description.
So while I am occupied with non-dressage fripperies Vin is free to lounge about in his field with his buddies while I try out…
I’m still in my bathrobe – I have the house to myself (why do I want to add ‘Oh yes’ in a Wayne’s World voice?).
There’s something on the television but the sound is off; it seems to have a very young Denzel Washington in it though.
I’ve just put a book down for a few minutes while I collect my thoughts.
I’m listening to some talking heads on Radio Four’s Any Questions.
One of the politicians makes me want to reach for my hammer and smash the laptop to bits every time he fails to answer a question, but that would be foolish so I fight the urge. It’s touch and go though.
Why are you alone, I hear you ask. (I did hear that, didn’t I?)
I am alone because the Lovely S and The Lovely Aussie Sammi have gone to Chav Central, sorry, England’s fine medieval city of Worcester, to experience the complete and utter hell that is the Worcester Christmas Fair. Or is it Fayre? Or Fare?
I declined the offer to accompany them because, erm, I’ve got a bone in my leg and, umm, the housing market worries me and, ahem…
This morning I have finished reading A Tale Etched in Blood and Hard Black Pencil by the erratic but usually brilliant Christopher Brookmyre.
This really isn’t one of his better works.
But it is undeniably clever. And in parts excellently written and, as always, shows excellent examples of life through scathing observation.It’s his most Glasgae work to date – so much so that there’s a glossary in the back so those who haven’t worked things out can look up words like ‘Bampot’ (brilliantly translated to ‘A person of combustible nature’).
I have also, this morning, picked up, restarted and made significant inroads to Wide Sargasso Sea.
Yeah, not my choice, it’s a text.
And that’s why at (checks watch) 13.30 on Sunday afternoon I’m still in my bathrobe. With a cup of hours-old tea on the worktop. And the lorry parked around the corner (yeah, sorry about that Bromsgrove).
Apart from the onslaught of slutty slovenliness I’m feeling pretty good. Considering.
But apart from that, not too bad.
Yesterday I cleaned out B’s stable and packed his rugs and tack away. It broke my heart all over again.
Pauses while wondering why Denzel Washington has suddenly turned in to the fat queen of all that is chavness who is currently bombarding the hapless people of this country with wall-to-wall adverts urging us to buy Iceland’s substandard food products. Yes that’s right, it’s another attempt by the corporate beast to brainwash us all that cheap and nasty really isn’t so bad after all. Realises he’s accidentally changed channels but decides to stick with C4 because a trailer has just announced that The Simpsons is on next. Woo-hoo!
Did I mention that I’m dreadfully tired?
I should have a shower.
I should fix myself something to eat (there’s half a ton of Chinese food that we rescued from China City last night in the fridge).
I should tidy up and heat my tea.
I should get dressed.
But then I wouldn’t be a slovenly slut.
And today I just can’t be arsed.