where art collides

The long hair versus short hair debate did not outlive lockdown. Interesting how “the work” of months, nay years could be destroyed in a few short snips of the scissors. Mere minutes. A metaphor for life. But this is old news. Just something to get the keyboard juices going. A leaching of language through my fingertips to the page in front of me.

At the front of the house I just heard an owl. Presumably the same bird occasionally to be heard out back. I did spot one once sat on our trellis in broad daylight. Same bird, maybe. Wonder where it kips. An old oak tree in a field, the upper rafters of a crumbling barn, possibly.  Will it find a kill tonight. I guess the allotments are a good hunting ground.

This morning I am awake a lot earlier than has been my recent habit. I’m not sure you would call it insomnia. I got six hours. I don’t lie there desperately trying to get back to sleep although I do go through a process of trying to decide whether if I stay still I will nod off again. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes after I’ve take up the tea I doze a little. A good doze. Back to bed…

Relaxing in the front room to the sound of Classic FM. Breakfast has been taken and offspring 4 has gone back to bed. He came in last night at around 1.30am having been DJing at some club or other downtown. 1.30 is relatively early to bed for him on such occasions.

The day’s main objective is to unleash the chainsaw on the woodpile behind the greenhouse. We have a very nice wood store but much of what is there is far too long and is sticking out the end of it. Some judicious shortening will enable all the wood to fit in and create some space for me to move the oak logs recently acquired from Tom the Tree Man that are clogging up the path around the back of the shed.

Fear not I have the protective gear although I may see if I can find some contact lenses as my specs tend to steam up behind the faceguard that comes with the protective helmet. Steamed up specs are not what you want when cutting wood with a chainsaw.

I recall Sunday mornings when we lived in London pre kids pre marriage. We would head out somewhere for breakfast and sit around reading the Sunday papers. Do people buy a Sunday paper anymore? We rarely go out for breakfast nowadays. Never really unless we are staying in a hotel. I guess we have somewhere nice to live that is conducive to a pleasant Sunday morning whereas when we were young free and single ish it made sense for us to escape our respective garrets and find a comfortable meeting place for brunch.

Sometimes on a London Sunday afternoon I remember heading for the Bulls Head in Barnes which was a famous Sunday lunchtime jazz venue. Hopefully still is. We have a Sunday afternoon in London lined up at the end of November. Meeting some of the O’Rourke clan. Might look to see if there is any jazz on.