Lots of lovely things have happened today. First, from yesterday, still. I was grateful to be single, not sleeping in a bed with some poor unfortunate. Butternut squash and aduki bean curry, three meals running. That's all I'm saying. Love only goes so far.
Up and out in time to catch Mary Bike Politics leaving the pond. She was super-friendly. I had my whole pond lap alone and the water was delicious. I had to stop, three quarters of the way round. The view was breathtaking. Thin branches reaching up through pale pink sunlight. Birds everywhere you look. Such peace in the middle of London. Such things demand gratitude. You just can't not.
I walked over the heath rather than cycling. I miss that rise over Parliament Hill in the morning. It was worth it. Figures on the top of the hill take on a mystical quality. Or just arty, maybe. They're utterly compelling. It's like you're watching a bit of history happen, or a bit of life.
I saw a woman crucified by a dog on a lead in each hand, pulling different ways. She was laughing, though. Not badly cruicified. It did look dramatic, though. If only she'd let her head drop a bit, just for a photo. She smiled.
Speaking of smiling... I moved slightly to the side to let a cyclist past at the very bottom of Parliament Hill, by the station. The smile he gave me. So very pleasing. He was dark-eyed and vaguely dredlocked, intense and handsome. I smiled a while then, too. I wondered - could he have been the same cyclist I asked for directions in Hammersmith on Boxing Day? The stories we make. I'm just trying to justify such a huge, wide-eyed smile. Maybe it was just so. Or maybe I had toothpaste up my face. Or a leaf.
Lovely Jean from the pond has invited Ruth and me to a Saturday matinee at The National. Brilliant! We're going. I spoke to her on the phone today. She's so ready to laugh. She makes me very happy. And it means I get to see her, which is nice. Nothing for months and now twice in one week. Jean, you bus, you.
It's taken me ages to get into my work today, and now I'm on a roll. I'll go back and do some more when I'm done here. Not long - the pond still calls, bright and early - but I will finish off a bit. I have an excuse, but no excuse really. This morning I was afflicted by one of those 'bolt through the skull' headaches. They take over my whole right side. It really does feel like there's a thick metal bolt going through from above my right eyebrow, out by my cranial bumpage and down into my neck, back, arm and leg. That's one major headache.
They don't happen often, but when they do, only one thing works. I'm grateful, then, for the Boots equivalent of Syndol (they'd sold out), and to the gentleman at the pharmacy counter
in Muswell Hill for knowing his stuff and suggesting them. Two things, now. Same chemical make-up - different box. Perhaps by the end of this year, my yoga skills will be such that I can med out a headache like that. Meditate rather than medicate. Today, though, with the deadline that may well be responsible for said headache looming, I plumped for the chemical option.
I saw a man wearing the most hilarious 4-inch Cuban heels in Hampstead Starbuck's this morning. White, they were. He looked like someone who was a bit famous, and possibly expected to be recognised. There go my stories again. Maybe it's just that I was looking at him. He was quite good-looking. Maybe I was just being graceless about it, all fired up by my
cyclist (who I hope is the Norwegian writer Margaret promised me, only from somewhere olivier or more Eastern Europey).
I've had a very pleasant day here, wrapped in a blanket, typing at the kitchen table. I have decided - I want a dog so badly now, and I need somewhere to live... I'd like to combine the two. The last time I did that, I stayed there four years, so deeply I loved those dogs. I could not leave them. I'm not asking for that. Just a bit of healthy dog action and a place with dog-lovers. So, you know, if anyone knows someone in North London who has a dog and a spare room to rent.
Ooh, and I read in my Christmas present dog behaviour book that howling with your dog (well, they say singing, for the humans, but it's all the same) is good for bonding. I'm vindicated. I'm sure that means singing into foreheads is okay too. As long as they're still doing happy as they howl, there's no issue. In fact, it's a benefit. Yeah!
I still carry that tiny bit of upbringing-shame (dog-lovers are stupid and needy) but whatever the truth, I am one. Dogs make me disproportionately happy - and in my book, that's the best way to be.
* Can't find any pictures of a suitably handsome smiling cyclist, so the dogs won again. Sarah Lonton asked if I knew what percentage of the photos I've posted are of dogs. I said 'a lot'. Now 'a lot more'. The ones at the top look more like they're having a good old shout than a howl. "Aaarrrghhh! Gahhhhaaahhh! Aaaahhhghhhhh.". The one in the middle looks like my girl dog (though not quite as pretty, it being a boy and that). No excuse for this last. Not in the least bit relevant. Ah well.
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