We went for a walk this morning along the public footpath by the lake - I quite fancied trying to climb one of the steep hills on the opposite bank but it's probably lucky we didn't as 90 minutes of walking through fields properly knackered me out. I would have liked to go a bit further afield than we managed, but the public footpath seemed to disappear suddenly in both directions. We walked along the narrow road for a while, but there were blind corners and vans and lorries hurtling by, so we decided to turn back the other way.
Down by the lake I remembered childhood holidays and how impressed I was with my brother skimming stones across water. It had taken me ages to learn how to emulate him, but he was still the king of it. It must be at least twenty years since I'd last tried it. Would I still know how? I gave it a go.
And it was an impressive return to form. My first stone skipped eight or nine times across the still water. My girlfriend looked at me with admiration. My subsequent attempts were less impressive, as perhaps I tried too hard or selected stones that were too lumpy or heavy. I wondered if years of young boys skimming stones meant that there would be a shortage of suitable missiles on the banks of the lake and a surfeit of light, flat stones in the water.
I had been hoping to go for a drive in the afternoon, but after reading over lunch I was hit by strong post-Edinburgh exhaustion and went for an afternoon nap instead. I had managed to push myself through those last few days of the Fringe and find the energy to do all those extra gigs, but now I had relaxed my body decided to hibernate. I lay down and fell into a deep sleep that bordered on coma and which might be the closest a living person can be to being dead. My body told me to go fuck myself for all the strain I had put it through and shut down. It was wonderful. Being dead isn't all that bad, I reckon. It's a blessed relief. And Hamlet needn't have worried about what dreams might come. You're too fucked to pay any attention. A switch gets flicked and you're out of here.
Alas someone flicked the switch back on, so having discovered the undiscovered country, I was unceremoniously repatriated and showed Hamlet up for the chump he was, because I had returned from its bourn. It had a nice bourn. I had been an illegal immigrant this time. Going over there, stealing their jobs. Their jobs mainly involving lying very still and slowly rotting. But the hours are good.
For the first time this year I have absolutely nothing to do and no deadlines approaching and nothing on my mind. Perhaps tomorrow I will climb a big hill. Or maybe I will slip into temporary oblivion again. Or permanent oblivion. That'd be OK with me. The dead have it easy. Lucky stiffs.
