I have to be honest: this morning, it crossed my mind for a second not to go to the pond, but to stay in bed. Blasphemy! It didn't last long. The next thought was 'well, Ruth's not there this morning anyway, so I'll go a bit later'. Bummery! Then I remembered those other ladies I love to see too, and I thought of my cold skin and warm hands and that Bring-It-On-I'm-F**king-Invicible,-Me feeling that you get as you get out. I got up.
The heath was proper foggy. You really 'couldn't see shit' (as my friend commented from the back of the car during one of my first driving lessons, as we drove her home). It made me remember a story I wrote when I was a child, still, in middle school. It was all sci-fi and fantasy, a little boy protagonist (my version of me) and caves, fog, even aliens, maybe. Something about things being shrouded in mist. Danger. Nobody to help. Fighting, keeping on. Not being believed.
The reason I wrote it was a student teacher, whose name, sadly, I have forgotten, but whose nose I suddenly remember, as well as her dark, almost-curly hair. She felt I didn't need to slog along with the rest learning grammar (well, my mother was an English teacher at the time, and I wasn't having trouble making sentences). She thought I should be more creative, so she gave me a month or two off, to write.
Oh, God, did I let her down. It wasn't that I didn't want to, nor that her judgement, or this experiment was wrong. I did have a passion for writing creatively, and I did want to do it. I just had no discipline at all, and no structure. The instruction was to 'write a story about anything' and I struggled. Fuck, it could have been my first novel! But it wasn't. It was a botched piece of gumbo. But well done her, and thank you, for giving it a go. I may not have succeeded, but I do remember it, and what a gesture of faith.
At the end of the year, the English prize went to Rachael, a very clever person, very good at English. Inexplicably, she tried to give it to me. She didn't want it. She believed it should have been mine. Oh, I wish I'd known what gratitude was back then. Another gesture, massive. I'm grateful retrospectively, 's Rachael, if you're listening. I hope you are.
In the changing rooms, Tottenham Mary's face. We were both BLATANTLY listening to another conversation going on. We managed not to make eye contact, which was for the best. But her face. Nothing spoken. So many words in it.
It's not often one looks forward to an 8am meeting, is it, but I had a Peacock Tree Yoga meet with Esther Lilley and Rob Grundel. It was a scream. I like to affirm to myself from time to time that 'my work feels like play'. Oh, with them it does. It was fab. And then I had another dose of Lilley and a skypetype dose of idea-batting with Rob later too. Inspiring eggs, the pair of them.
Lilley made me cry a little bit, and I did her. Is that a sign of true friendship? Maybe, maybe not, but whatever the signs, she is a true friend and a beautiful creature. I nagged her relentlessly about going to bed early rather than late at night, keeping under my had what time I finally closed down my computer and went to sleep. Ah well, if you can't enjoy your own hypocrisy, then the world's a sorry place. And we know that it's not, so I revelled in it.
We stopped our chat for 2 minutes' silence. I haven't voluntarily done that for years, but it felt good. I stood in the middle of the living room in Kate's flat, eyes closed, and blessed all the acts of kindness and courage, all the moments of integrity and love that happen in a war. I find the US earnestness about this subject hard to stomach, but for that moment, I was suspended in some etherical flow-stream, thanking, feeling, softening. Thank you, Esther Lilley. Without your suggestion, I would not have experienced this.
And then a massage, with a very interesting client. Very interesting indeed, and lovely. I was fascinated and delighted to talk to her (we chatted before and after, not during, it's not a haircut). And thank you, Pudding, for letting me use your flat and for being the guardian of my massage bench. And remember to check the stalks that hold the legs on, Pud. One of them was loose today - they are from time to time. I checked and put it right, but just in case.
Oh, I do like the things I get to do.
Australia is on the telly. Kate is watching. I love that film. I remember watching it for the first time earlier this year, but I can't remember where. I looked at the little boy in it tonight and cried. Just looking at him. I looked again - and oop, there, a load more tears. Something in the big-eyed softness in his face, his goodness and the shape of the film. Hugh Jackman's not unpleasant to look at, either, is he? And I love to watch Nicole Kidman. She's always, always good. Remember Dogville?
I am grateful for the lovely comments on facebook, about a photo taken a few years ago (hey, Michael Smith, that was you, that was). I'm grateful that people go to the trouble to say something nice. It touches me. And I'm grateful to see pictures of my niece and nephew. Very sweet. I'm grateful for computers, duvets, friends, Luc's use of 'flanks', emails, blog-glee - I look forward to my friend's every day now. For language of all kinds, I'm grateful. For a warm bed. For the smile the Big Issue selling man gave me today, just so.
I'm grateful that I'm still writing even though my eyes have started going in separate directions. And for my German reading glasses, which make me look austere and wholefoody, like I'm thinking about digesting. So nice not to strain, though. Aren't the letters big and pretty?
Yes, yes they are.
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