Saturday

[tamaranth]

Life's good. I've spoken a single sentence aloud so far today: "Return to Thorpe Bay, please": I did also thank the ticket clerk and the supermarket assistant. I'm on the beach, it's gloriously hot and because it's a Saturday there's yacht racing to watch, out in the estuary: the starting gun just fired. I've been swimming, and spotted one very dead jellyfish. (Best sort: I'm phobic about the things and wouldn't have made it into the water if I'd seen the nasty blue bastard first). I've had smoked turkey and fresh bread, and some locally-grown greengages. I'm listening to some nice organ music - Bach, I'm fairly sure - on Radio 3, and I'm just about to open a can of beer and settle down to write some light, fluffy fiction.

I'm in love with life. I sat on the train grinning until my face hurt because it's a beautiful day: because Caruso, redubbed a couple of years back with the Vienna Philharmonic, still sounds as though he was singing in a bath: because I wrote something that made me laugh out loud: because this summer isn't last summer, or the summer before: because I was congratulated, last night, on leading the way to a restaurant in Central London where the food was excellent and we didn't have to wait for a table for ten: because I can talk about creative blocks and how to release them with a graphic artist, and we are communicating about a comparable experience.

I just mention all this to counteract the popular representation of me as a miserable git who's hiding away under a stone, or a black cloud, or something.

Must stop writing briefly. The keyboard's getting too hot for comfort.

Comments

Non-squirmy

[fishlifter.livejournal.com]

My conscience is clear. Although that may just mean I am deeply insensitive...