Today apparently is the saddest day of the year. (Or at least Monday was but I Piccalilli am riding the crest of an artistic licence wave and am thus pretending that Monday is today.)
Bloggiana knows that today is the saddest day of the year because it says so, in a miscellaneous column in The Guardian. I know it to be true because I can read Bloggiana’s lips.
We decide to go outside into Our Garden. There perhaps our friend the yellow wagtail will cheer us up. Or perhaps one of the many wrens we have dotting in and out of the compost heap will dot in and out of our dreamthoughts and make us smile. Last week when I was hock-deep in mud, I caught a glimpse of a female goldcrest and that definitely made me happier for some considerable time. Birds are wonderful. Both Bloggiana and I are agreed on this.
Alternatively, if we are not to be cheered by birds, we could be buoyed up by the sight of newly appearing snowdrops. I once read an article about an organisation called The Snowdrop Society. Members (galanthophiles) gather in conspiratorial huddles during the season and dispute which species is which. They are passionate apparently, dedicated to their cause, this despite the fact that it is almost impossible to distinguish between one type and another. Every winter, we wait for our snowdrops to appear and smile when they do – they always seem so brave, jaunty in the cold, stubborn in their resistance of the deep frosts and the harsh mid-season winds.
Bloggiana and I wander through the garden, stumbling on the occasional mole-hill, blinded by the light from the snow on the tops, fingers blue with the wind, minds numb with sorrow. Tomorrow the estate agent comes and tells us exactly when we must begin to market Our House. Yesterday it was Christmas and we ate goose and drank more wine than was good for us. Today a credit card statement popped through the door with the bill for the wine and the bird. Soon we have to begin to face the question Where on earth are we going to put all our stuff?
So the gloom that grips us seems real indeed. We go together to gather the eggs, only to drop one on the way out. Fucking hell, exclaims the Blog-woman. To hell with our omelette, I chime, though in truth I am really very sad to see it go. We go to climb the hill, to embrace the view of the Lakes hills and the sands of Morecambe Bay and the twinkling rumble of the M6. To the east, the Dales shiver beneath their white mantle. To the north, the sky is dark with oncoming rain and we descend the hill at speed. Fuck the view, exclaims the Blog-woman and once again, my sentiments chime with hers.
Then something must get hold of us. Perhaps it is a sudden realisation that a miscellaneous column of The Guardian should not be marshalling our mood. Whatever it is, suddenly Bloggiana and I turn to one another and say let’s plan a road trip. We could Thelma-and-Louise it. French-and-Saunders it. Jeeves-and-Wooster it. We could pack Bloggiana’s unfeasibly small car with food and wine (PG, natch), cigarettes and wine. We could abandon Teener, Adolesco, Nag, Dobbin, Our Dog, the birds and snowdrops to their own devices. And we could drive. Where shall we drive to? asks Bloggiana from atop the muckheap, her favourite place for declaiming. Not sure darling, I reply doing my best to sound like one of the Bogarts. When shall we go? asks Bloggiana. Not at all sure my sweet, I reply.
Now it is Monday evening and we are sitting in silence, looking at the dim flames in our fire. Nothing is said but two things are certain. 1. We are no longer sad. 2. We can’t wait for our trip.
Bloggiana knows that today is the saddest day of the year because it says so, in a miscellaneous column in The Guardian. I know it to be true because I can read Bloggiana’s lips.
We decide to go outside into Our Garden. There perhaps our friend the yellow wagtail will cheer us up. Or perhaps one of the many wrens we have dotting in and out of the compost heap will dot in and out of our dreamthoughts and make us smile. Last week when I was hock-deep in mud, I caught a glimpse of a female goldcrest and that definitely made me happier for some considerable time. Birds are wonderful. Both Bloggiana and I are agreed on this.
Alternatively, if we are not to be cheered by birds, we could be buoyed up by the sight of newly appearing snowdrops. I once read an article about an organisation called The Snowdrop Society. Members (galanthophiles) gather in conspiratorial huddles during the season and dispute which species is which. They are passionate apparently, dedicated to their cause, this despite the fact that it is almost impossible to distinguish between one type and another. Every winter, we wait for our snowdrops to appear and smile when they do – they always seem so brave, jaunty in the cold, stubborn in their resistance of the deep frosts and the harsh mid-season winds.
Bloggiana and I wander through the garden, stumbling on the occasional mole-hill, blinded by the light from the snow on the tops, fingers blue with the wind, minds numb with sorrow. Tomorrow the estate agent comes and tells us exactly when we must begin to market Our House. Yesterday it was Christmas and we ate goose and drank more wine than was good for us. Today a credit card statement popped through the door with the bill for the wine and the bird. Soon we have to begin to face the question Where on earth are we going to put all our stuff?
So the gloom that grips us seems real indeed. We go together to gather the eggs, only to drop one on the way out. Fucking hell, exclaims the Blog-woman. To hell with our omelette, I chime, though in truth I am really very sad to see it go. We go to climb the hill, to embrace the view of the Lakes hills and the sands of Morecambe Bay and the twinkling rumble of the M6. To the east, the Dales shiver beneath their white mantle. To the north, the sky is dark with oncoming rain and we descend the hill at speed. Fuck the view, exclaims the Blog-woman and once again, my sentiments chime with hers.
Then something must get hold of us. Perhaps it is a sudden realisation that a miscellaneous column of The Guardian should not be marshalling our mood. Whatever it is, suddenly Bloggiana and I turn to one another and say let’s plan a road trip. We could Thelma-and-Louise it. French-and-Saunders it. Jeeves-and-Wooster it. We could pack Bloggiana’s unfeasibly small car with food and wine (PG, natch), cigarettes and wine. We could abandon Teener, Adolesco, Nag, Dobbin, Our Dog, the birds and snowdrops to their own devices. And we could drive. Where shall we drive to? asks Bloggiana from atop the muckheap, her favourite place for declaiming. Not sure darling, I reply doing my best to sound like one of the Bogarts. When shall we go? asks Bloggiana. Not at all sure my sweet, I reply.
Now it is Monday evening and we are sitting in silence, looking at the dim flames in our fire. Nothing is said but two things are certain. 1. We are no longer sad. 2. We can’t wait for our trip.
No comments:
Post a Comment