When work doesn't work it feels like duty, devoir, your homework, French irregular verbs.
When work doesn't work you're skimming through your paperwork, scanning the holiday features, reading for each detail of the the sunset holding a library book date-stamped with your return.
Work is a charade, an act, a picture, a book or a film fumblingly copied, two fingers held up to management, two words censored, blocked, bitten back, exploding in your mind. When work doesn't work.
When work doesn't work, you come in from the field and hear the party for the profligate.
Who's he kidding?
A kid would be nice, Dad. Look, I'm not pleading, honest.
Me and a few mates. Low key, you know me, modest, the other one.
Your other son.
Tuesday 18 January 2011
Saturday 15 January 2011
What do you have in your hand?
This week, with a promise not to open it before the day, I took receipt of my birthday present from my sister - a new pair of secateurs; with a Sophie Grigson cookbook to follow. This has prompted me to tidy my trug. By 'trug' I do not mean the gift of our Sussex trug from East Grinstead, a genuine artefact, but the little green and yellow ditty bag that contains my tools.
Tidying is a feature of this household, we are regular 'tidiers' but favour different areas. His are the shed and the garage versus my desk and work bag plus the contested territory of the coffee table.
Hither migratory objects - books, beans, bank statements and the like find their way in much the same way as various items pertaining to his ditty bag or trug had found their way into mine. Honesty compels me to admit that his was recovering from a soaking and drying out in the garage. Enough, it was well and truly recovered. Today it was time to differentiate and negotiate.
For instance; I do not collect string, washers, wooden clothes pegs (useful for strawberry runners), red rubber bands discarded by the postman, or wingnuts. Over to you, dear. Likewise a hand fork, a spirit level, a pair of fluorescent bicycle clips and a set of screwdriver heads.
My stripped down trug now contains the following: one biro, one pencil, a pair of old scissors, a useful pronged object for removing weeds from paving stones, my new secateurs (from tomorrow)and my trowel.
This last has to be my favourite tool. Yes, I can manage a border spade or a small rake, but I love my hand trowel for its versatility, for the way its old-fashioned wooden handle fits into my palm. With it I can uproot weeds, kneeling to get at the stubborn roots of thistles and dandelions. With it I can line out seed drills, scoop holes for seed potatoes, excavate miniature puddling ponds for leeks. And when all is said and done I mustn't forget to clean it. Many husbands are punctilious on these matters.
Tools are important. At the burning bush God asked Moses, 'What is that in your hand?' It is still a good question.
Tidying is a feature of this household, we are regular 'tidiers' but favour different areas. His are the shed and the garage versus my desk and work bag plus the contested territory of the coffee table.
Hither migratory objects - books, beans, bank statements and the like find their way in much the same way as various items pertaining to his ditty bag or trug had found their way into mine. Honesty compels me to admit that his was recovering from a soaking and drying out in the garage. Enough, it was well and truly recovered. Today it was time to differentiate and negotiate.
For instance; I do not collect string, washers, wooden clothes pegs (useful for strawberry runners), red rubber bands discarded by the postman, or wingnuts. Over to you, dear. Likewise a hand fork, a spirit level, a pair of fluorescent bicycle clips and a set of screwdriver heads.
My stripped down trug now contains the following: one biro, one pencil, a pair of old scissors, a useful pronged object for removing weeds from paving stones, my new secateurs (from tomorrow)and my trowel.
This last has to be my favourite tool. Yes, I can manage a border spade or a small rake, but I love my hand trowel for its versatility, for the way its old-fashioned wooden handle fits into my palm. With it I can uproot weeds, kneeling to get at the stubborn roots of thistles and dandelions. With it I can line out seed drills, scoop holes for seed potatoes, excavate miniature puddling ponds for leeks. And when all is said and done I mustn't forget to clean it. Many husbands are punctilious on these matters.
Tools are important. At the burning bush God asked Moses, 'What is that in your hand?' It is still a good question.
Friday 14 January 2011
What does the store have in song?
We took down the Christmas decorations as is customary on Twelfth Night. I expect I should have archived my last post then. Ah well.
Our local emporium at the foot of the hill has moved faster, cashing in on the realism and the optimism of cash-strapped Essex folk - all Christmas decorations now 50p and big red Valentine cards now on sale - 99p no extra tax added.
The background music has changed too. As I wander around searching for bargains, I have an attentive ear, This is not aural wallpaper, but a fascinating soundtrack on local life. Christmas was upbeat and retro and sometimes brought me close to tears - The Little Drummer Boy is one of my earliest radio memories. We had stridency with Santa Claus is Coming to Town, cynicism with Lennon and a gospel flavouring with Mary's Boy Child.
Now, maybe it is the January blues, but the store is playing sad songs. I don't recognise them probably because I'm too old, but I hear the voices of commitment, disillusionment and regret.
You may not need to buy three tins of chopped tomatoes for 99p, you may not enjoy canned music; but next time you go into the store listen for the lyrics and observe the shoppers, the mothers and the nannas, and the check-out girls. You might smile, or weep, or pray.
What does the song have in store?
Our local emporium at the foot of the hill has moved faster, cashing in on the realism and the optimism of cash-strapped Essex folk - all Christmas decorations now 50p and big red Valentine cards now on sale - 99p no extra tax added.
The background music has changed too. As I wander around searching for bargains, I have an attentive ear, This is not aural wallpaper, but a fascinating soundtrack on local life. Christmas was upbeat and retro and sometimes brought me close to tears - The Little Drummer Boy is one of my earliest radio memories. We had stridency with Santa Claus is Coming to Town, cynicism with Lennon and a gospel flavouring with Mary's Boy Child.
Now, maybe it is the January blues, but the store is playing sad songs. I don't recognise them probably because I'm too old, but I hear the voices of commitment, disillusionment and regret.
You may not need to buy three tins of chopped tomatoes for 99p, you may not enjoy canned music; but next time you go into the store listen for the lyrics and observe the shoppers, the mothers and the nannas, and the check-out girls. You might smile, or weep, or pray.
What does the song have in store?
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