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I got a tweet from another blogger (@Richmariner) saying that the intro to this blog made sense of why he himself had been blogging since 2005. I went to look at the intro.
You can see it here. It’s nearly 16 years since I wrote that and started this adventure. This very boring and over-documented adventure.
I talk about what a valuable resource my teenage diary was for writing Excavating Rita (and of course it would subsequently prove even more fruitful in The Headmaster’s Son) and comment that early Warming Ups might be an inspiration for the 50 year old me… I assume I imagined 50 was a ridiculous distance away and I doubt I would have imagined I’d still be going and writing stuff that will inspire the 65 year old me. And though the maths isn’t exact, it’s strange to think there’s almost as much distance between now and the start of Warming Up as there was between the start of Warming Up and the beginning of my year off in 1985 when I wished I could have met Gandhi as I thought we'd have a lot "to share".
Those two (rough) halves do not not feel equivalent in my mind.
Time flies, my pretty children. Don’t waste it all writing down what just happened. Go out and live it. Or stay in bed. Makes no odds.
You’re alive for a finite period and time in infinite, so proportionately you’re here for 0% of the time anyway. Row row row your boat.
The work on our house is pretty much done (for now- I suspect it will be a never-ending raft of repairs) and today I made some efforts to move things around and try to unpack the repacked attic space. Anything to distract from the work I am meant to be doing, right? They keep moving the recording back. How am I meant to do anything without an imminent deadline.
In the afternoon I wondered why I was stuck in the house on a nice day and decided to go and write my blogs in the garden. This is why I moved to the country! For a few months a year my office can be the outdoors, surrounded by greenery and relative peace. We’re by a fairly busy road and the occasional plane goes overhead on its way to or from Luton, but compared to Shepherd’s Bush this is a pastoral idyll. I never saw a shepherd or a bush in West London, but they’re both all over the place out here. Rename things to be what they are.
Then some more moving things around. In spite of previous experience I believe that if I can get everything in its right place then my life will finally make sense. This ignores the fact that in daily life I am messy and disorganised and don’t put things back where they are meant to go. But what if people can change and become better. Just because I have lived in chaos for five decades doesn’t mean I can’t live my remaining ten decades in order with everything in its place. I am sure the kids will play ball if we explain it to them logically.
I did some colouring in with my daughter at tea-time. Colouring in fucking rocks. Especially if you don’t care too much about using the right colour or keeping in the lines. Everything my daughter colours in looks like it is whizzing around the page so fast that you can’t see where it ends or begins.
I hope Gandhi is reading this blog in Heaven. Can't wait to see what he thought when I get to meet him. Bet he's looking forward to it.
