...autumn, winter...
Firstly, don’t you think that ‘wintry’ is a wonderful word? It sounds like Bing Crosby, log fires, and mulled wine, and all those clichéd moments that I spend my winters trying to recreate. The way the weather’s going though, I’ll have to hire a snow machine to fulfil half of them. It’s not the same any more. Global warming. *sigh*
Also, I like that feeling you get when you’re blown into a pub in front of a whirl of freezing wind and dead leaves, and it’s warm, noisy and smells of beer and smoke. And everyone tuts and shouts at you to shut the door. It makes me feel as if I’m in a Victorian novel. Except without the pea-soup fog, gruel, workhouses and dark satanic mills.
Secondly, why is it that I can shop all day, and only experience the vestiges of fatigue, while when I’m going round a museum, no matter how fascinating, my legs begin to buckle after one floor? Am I alone in this? I was quite proud of myself though – I managed to identify TWO painters before having to look at the useful little plaques on the wall. So, Stanley Spencer and Canaletto are quite famous, and have pretty distinctive styles, but even so, for someone as uneducated in the world of arts as myself, it was a major achievement. I know Art! I do!
Anyway, I had a really nice weekend. Museums, good food and relaxing abounded. It made up for Friday night. I don’t mind having a good cry, but this, I am sure, was overkill. If you ever need to really cry your eyes out, do the following:
Get 1 bottle of white wine
Sit down in front of ‘All About My Mother’.
Cry.
Finish.
Get up and change the DVD to Lilya 4-Ever.
Sit down.
Cry.
Cry a lot.
Weep down the phone to anyone you can find, worrying them unnecessarily, as you are unable to articulate, save a few incomprehensible squeaks and phlegmy gurgles. (In my case, the person concerned was very concerned. Except that he was so drunk he didn't remember the next day when I mentioned it.)
Finish the wine.
Go to bed with cucumbers on your eyes.
It inspired me to give some money to the incredibly fantastic Unicef campaign to end child exploitation, and I never give money to charity (except Amnesty International), mainly because I spend my working hours persuading other people to give to one.
I’ll try and keep my mind off it by steeling myself for the ongoing fight with the elephants upstairs, who have turned into psycho-elephants from hell, and have now invaded the hall and stairs, sitting there smoking and drinking as if it was some social centre. Don’t they have a flat to go to? Perhaps there’s only so many elephants you can fit in a Lewisham flat. Maybe they're multiplying exponentially, and soon I won't be able to get in the house for elephants. They'll be squeezing out of windows, and falling willy nilly like rotten fruit onto the pavement. It'll be like navigating the garden path in the dark after the rain, trying unsuccessfully to avoid stepping on snails.
Anyway, I'm getting carried away. Back to the begging.
Also, I like that feeling you get when you’re blown into a pub in front of a whirl of freezing wind and dead leaves, and it’s warm, noisy and smells of beer and smoke. And everyone tuts and shouts at you to shut the door. It makes me feel as if I’m in a Victorian novel. Except without the pea-soup fog, gruel, workhouses and dark satanic mills.
Secondly, why is it that I can shop all day, and only experience the vestiges of fatigue, while when I’m going round a museum, no matter how fascinating, my legs begin to buckle after one floor? Am I alone in this? I was quite proud of myself though – I managed to identify TWO painters before having to look at the useful little plaques on the wall. So, Stanley Spencer and Canaletto are quite famous, and have pretty distinctive styles, but even so, for someone as uneducated in the world of arts as myself, it was a major achievement. I know Art! I do!
Anyway, I had a really nice weekend. Museums, good food and relaxing abounded. It made up for Friday night. I don’t mind having a good cry, but this, I am sure, was overkill. If you ever need to really cry your eyes out, do the following:
Get 1 bottle of white wine
Sit down in front of ‘All About My Mother’.
Cry.
Finish.
Get up and change the DVD to Lilya 4-Ever.
Sit down.
Cry.
Cry a lot.
Weep down the phone to anyone you can find, worrying them unnecessarily, as you are unable to articulate, save a few incomprehensible squeaks and phlegmy gurgles. (In my case, the person concerned was very concerned. Except that he was so drunk he didn't remember the next day when I mentioned it.)
Finish the wine.
Go to bed with cucumbers on your eyes.
It inspired me to give some money to the incredibly fantastic Unicef campaign to end child exploitation, and I never give money to charity (except Amnesty International), mainly because I spend my working hours persuading other people to give to one.
I’ll try and keep my mind off it by steeling myself for the ongoing fight with the elephants upstairs, who have turned into psycho-elephants from hell, and have now invaded the hall and stairs, sitting there smoking and drinking as if it was some social centre. Don’t they have a flat to go to? Perhaps there’s only so many elephants you can fit in a Lewisham flat. Maybe they're multiplying exponentially, and soon I won't be able to get in the house for elephants. They'll be squeezing out of windows, and falling willy nilly like rotten fruit onto the pavement. It'll be like navigating the garden path in the dark after the rain, trying unsuccessfully to avoid stepping on snails.
Anyway, I'm getting carried away. Back to the begging.
posted by Rachie at 11:25 PM
