16April1997

16 April 1997
My dear folks,

Wednesday evening it is & a lovely one too. The washing is churning around in the washing machine & Don Williams is crooning away to his gypsy woman on the CD. The expression “made in heaven” went through my mind earlier but it occurred to me simultaneously that what we need right now is a little rain made in heaven. Britain is slowly scrunching up in a drought that is turning quite nasty. Be that as it may, it’s been a lovely day. I spent the 1st part of it working (till 8 a.m.), the 2nd bit sleeping (till noon) & the rest running around. I’m still trying to decide on a new computer & I cycled into the Strand to look at a display of Gateway models. I liked what I saw but nothing sufficiently to make a decision. There was nothing that absolutely fitted the bill at the exactly right price. It’ll wait.

Stops on the way home for bread & soup from the health shop, hoummos & tarama for Jones from the grocer & fruit from the usual. There was a selection of plants outside the greengrocer & I sought the advice of one of the cockney youths who work there as to what he recommended for the patio garden. Everything would grow on the patio, he reassured me nonchalantly; none of their plants was fussy as to outlook or treatment. I took a few of the plants along while keeping my doubts about his expertise to myself. The various packages filled my backpack & swung from both sides of the handlebars.

The patio garden is coming along. I’ve planted another climber to replace one that succumbed to the cold, stuffed a hanging basket with some gay little items & tried to raise a little colour in the troughs. It makes the place feel ever so much cheerier. Mavis likes nothing better than having the patio door open on a sunny day so that he can sprawl across the threshold in the sunshine & avoid the necessity of squeezing himself – like a hairy ribbon of toothpaste – through his catflap. He’s had a quiet day after a night on the tiles. He was determined to go outside when I left for work last night, standing up against the door & looking around pleadingly. It was fine by me. It’s his fat skin. He came bounding in as I arrived back this a.m., squealing for breakfast.

I’m off Thursday – praise be - & back at work for a dayshift on Friday before flying to Portugal for a week on Saturday. As always, I’ve overflowing baskets of correspondence to reply to & the flat with its tongue hanging out for a vacuum. Someone stuffed a flier for a maid-service through the door a few days ago but I haven’t yet got past the answerphone. The workmen have finished redecorating the ground floor flat. It looks good. The new tenants move in this weekend. The folks in the basement flat say their life has been transformed since the old – none too quiet – tenants moved out. There was more than a little friction there. There’s also been tenant warfare between the two girls sharing the first floor flat, threatening to sue each other after a bad fall out. I’ve been the middle-man, listening to both, trying to pour a little oil on troubled waters. One has now moved out, swearing vengeance. Never a quiet moment.

If you’ve heard this all before, it’s because my life chases its own tail around in circles. I’m not sure what to do about it, other than win the lottery. Last night, I counted the flights of stairs I climbed – either up or down – on my innumerable trips down to the VT suites or the studio. It was 48. I confess I thought it would be more.

Blessings
T