What else could you do?

Sunday August 31, 2008

So.  We got through August, damply.  Actually, being fair, August here generally is pretty damp, and it’s not as if we’ve not had some fine sunny days to break the monotony.

We’ve finished off the house sale and purchase documents and are planning to take the bundle over to Sally’s office tomorrow or the day after for signature witnessing and safe hand-over.  She’ll not be there but at least the pile will be back on her desk ready for pushing around the chain so soon as she’s caught her breath.  She does have a couple of back-up people to take the work on in her absence but we don’t know how they’ve been instructed.

That will just about do it for the business, I think.  It’s likely that, if the deal is going to go through to exchange of contracts it’ll be done by the end of September, with completion by the end of October.  If it doesn’t happen then we’ll just plonk this house back on the market and await developments.

No point in worrying about things over which you have no control.

Catching up on news the only things I’ve missed reporting are medical ones.  Boring.  I’ve seen my G.P. to start out on a programme of statin and/or diuretic change to get me away from the ones that can cause gynocop abnormal breast swelling.  The first step is to change from Lipostat 80mg to Simvastatin 40mg.  It takes three months for the effect of a change to reflect reliably in cholesterol readings so it’s likely that, if we are to move to Wales, I shall present an interesting case to some unsuspecting doctor in Neath.  The other, less amusing development was the arrival yesterday of my self-test kit for colon problems.  I’ll not bother you with the less than savoury detail on that one.

Interestingly, I tapped the G.P. for anything else I can do to help with my weight/size reduction programme.  He says that, given my inability to do much in the way of exercise, it comes down to calorie counting.  He says I should keep the count down to 2000 per day to maintain my weight, and reduce it to 1500 if I wish significantly to reduce it.  He approved of my refusal to monitor my weight in favour of a weekly waist measurement, and was impressed that I’ve managed to trim 2.5 centimetres already from the place where my waist would be if it were still there.  “You keep that up and in a year or so you’ll be back on the strait and narrow,” he said.

We shall see.  There’s a Sunday Special story going the rounds to the effect that, if you make it to 70 on a healthy life-style, you’ve a 54% chance of getting past 90.  Not good enough.  I fully intend to be around past 110 so that the King will have to send me a tedious number of birthday letters.

And, finally, I’m turning my mind back to the question of the nature and form of my poetry and journal writing.

The poetry is flowing once more, and I’m completing about one poem a week.  It’s experimental stuff, and I have nothing I wish to show just now.  Not certain that it’d be well received if I did.

The journal writing is an eternal, but I’m discontent with the form once again.  I’m not convinced that the blogging format and method suits me.  I’ve given it a good trial.  This morning, for old time’s sake, I surfed through the classic html suite on my hard disk.  It felt good.  I’ll noodle at this question before I take any action or decide what if anything to do about change or reversion.  It could be a really big project.  That said, having a large scale project to see me through the winter, past the temptation of NANOWRIMO and such, and enough to keep my head down while the days shorten and the nights grown long could be a good thing.

Unless something better comes along.

About a fortnight ago I made an honest attempt at writing a new Harry Cat story, documenting an amusing episode which involved mare’s pee and the vigorous application of Sunsilk.  Couldn’t do it.  Came out all flat and boring.  I seem, at present, not to be in story-telling mode.  It’s like as not because we’re living through a pretty intense and often amusing story ourselves at the moment.  I’ve wrapped the first draft up and stuck it in a corner of my hard disk, with a back up on my La Cie external drive.

Practically all my life for the last twenty years is on my hard disk, with backups.  I was asked not so long ago what I’d do if I lost it all.  “Do it again,” I said.  Stands to reason, does that. When you get down to it, what else could you do?

Such deliciousness

Saturday August 30, 2008

I just about finished the paper work yesterday, half-promising myself I’d round it all up today.  It was however one of those lovely, lovely nights when I go to bed at a normal, sensible hour, wake as usual five hours later with my hips promising to fill the night with screaming agony unless I get up, drink something hot and comforting while playing quietly on the computer, and then creep back for an hour or so. If I’m lucky.  But… On this occasion I slept all the way through to nine-thirty, woke feeling wonderful, cosy, bed-warm and stretchy, with not a hint of pain.

“I think this’d be a good day to go to Taunton to get those new cushion pads ordered, then,” Graham said.

“Oh. Do we have to? We really ought to finish these papers.”

“Depends on your definition of ‘have to’,” he said, his voice filled with dark menace.

“Okay, then.  I know what that means.  Let me sit and enjoy my coffee, then I’ll get myself ready.”

The road between Bridgwater and Taunton is busy at the moment, with a combination of road works and diversions making for long delays.  Graham started getting grumpy.

“Don’t be silly,” I said.  “Nothing to be done about it.  We’re comfy, cool, and there’s no reason for us to hurry. Just sit back and enjoy.”

The ‘humpfhh’ I received for that pearl of wisdom was the kind that knows I’m right, but would rather die than admit to it.

We found the foam shop and Graham entered upon a long and complicated discussion with the proprietor about the kinds of foam and padding we need to rejuvenate the seat cushions on our dear old sofa.  It was successful, the price was acceptable, and we contracted to return next week to collect them.

“Now what?” I asked when we got out into the fresh air and sunshine once more.

“Nothing, really.  I wouldn’t mind popping into the bank to deposit my final salary cheque, but other than that, we could go back home and take it easy over the weekend.”

“Fine, let’s do the bank.  Then I shall refuse to budge until I have a little brunch to make up for being dragged out so early in the morning.”

“Where do you fancy noshing?”

“How about County Stores?  We haven’t done County Stores in years.”

“Smells of mould.”

“KFC, then?”

“Smells of chicken fat.”

“Ok.  I give in.  We’ll do Subway’s again.”

It was pleasant enough, though I confess that my initial enchantment over Subway’s has faded.  When you come down to it, it’s bread rolls with a cheap filling, nothing more, nothing less.  If I have to eat bread rolls out I prefer that they taste more European than American.  Nothing wrong with American, of course, but the lighter taste of France or the Western Mediterranean suits my digestion better.  I’ve learned that La Baguette du Jour has opened a branch in Neath, close by the bus station.  I intend to become a regular customer.

Home, picking up wine and provisions for the weekend.  Graham will do his delicious spag. bog. tonight, and I intend to do steak and kidney pie, confused potatoes, cabbage greens and carrots tomorrow. 

Such deliciousness.  We deserve it, with all these papers waiting to be processed.

They’re having us on

Friday August 29, 2008

“I do believe we now have a week off from house stuff,” I said.  Sally had emailed to say that she’d just this morning checked up and down the two-transaction ‘chain’ and that everything was ‘progressing normally and satisfactorily’.  Sally went on to say she will be ‘taking a break’ next week. I replied, saying thanks, and wishing her a happy break.

We followed that with a swift call to our seller’s agent to let them know, and to inform them that we’ll not be having a formal survey.

“Great,” said Graham.  “Let’s make the most of it.”

At that moment, as though the Royal Mail was in cahoots with Sally for the sake of laughter, there came a great THUMP! from the hallway and there on the mat was a slightly tattered manilla envelope containing what could only be documents.  Lots of documents.  It was addressed to the two of us.

“Will you open it or shall I,” Graham asked.

“Oh, give it here.  I’ve done this before. Many times.”

My heart sank, but only a little and only for a moment.  The information, contract and transfer documents for both sale and purchase were revealed.  We now have all the paper work we need, and more.

“Well, at least we know that Sally’s not in a hurry to get this lot back,” Graham said, full of hope and optimism.

I thought for a moment.  “She may not be.  I want this lot read, digested, signed, sealed and digested long before next week is out.”

“Okay.  You’re right.  We’ll do it over the weekend.”

Watching the world go by

Thursday August 28, 2008

Swift as a speeding fast thing the message came back today that our buyers are delighted for us to leave our washer, dishwasher and fridge-freezer behind.  Which is good.  They’re in fine fettle but are several years old now and have no residual value;  if we end up taking them with us they’ll need to go in the garage pending a freecycle disposal and that does seem silly.

All is good and quiet on the house move, with everybody happy and pushing papers around the circuit at normal speed.

It transpires that our buyers’ solicitor, on principle, dismisses the validity of information in the HIP and so is carrying out his own searches and such.  I’m told that most solicitors have the same view.  So the £450 we paid is money down the drain;  nobody other than me has read the report, and it’s not intended for me.  This expensive compulsory document is no more than taxation without benefit to any involved person and the legislation should be repealed.  Time for one of those tedious letters to the editor, not that any good will come of it.

If we ever sell again under this stupid legislation I shall produce the HIP myself, for a fraction of the cost and using one of the DIY form sets that are freely available.  I’m sure I can do as good a job as any so-called ‘professional’.

“Tell you what,” I said, all bright and bouncy on our way for lunch in Burnham, “If we ever move again, let’s go and live in Mykonos.  You can run a bar and I’ll sit in the corner and write obscure poetry about Greek islands in the sun.”

“On one condition.”

“Go on, then, what’s that?”

“You have to cook omelettes for your living.”

“It’s a deal.”

Lunch was good, and filling, and we went for a long stroll along the prom afterwards, resting now and again as my legs ran out of oomph.  It was a grey day, with no discernible sunshine while we were out.  Even so I enjoyed watching the world go by.

“You can do a bit of practice this evening,” Graham said just now, looking over my shoulder while I am drivelling this.

“What, making a HIP?”

“No, silly.  Cooking an omelette.  I could just go an omelette for dinner.”

“You gottit.”

Just a little excitement

Wednesday August 27, 2008

Taking a back seat on the house-move for a while seems to be working awfully well.  Of his own accord our agent called this afternoon to inform us that the survey was satisfactory, the buyer is ‘excited’ at the progress, and that things are moving in both the solicitor’s and the mortgage company’s offices.  All is satisfactory, so it seems.  Still no indication of dates but, as I tell myself every evening, we are only a tad over a fortnight into what is likely to be a minimum of an eight week process so it’s a little early to be asking for a time table.

Graham took the call, which is fine by me.  I hate having to recount phone calls to him–our ideas of what constitutes a sensibly serial account seldom coincide.

We’ve got to the point in the game where details of what we should leave and what we should take become important.  Graham is keen to leave our dishwasher, washing machine and fridge-freezer behind, taking only the clothes drier with us–the house we are buying has these units built in, to be left for us.  Both houses have built in ovens and hobs.

But, and it’s a vital thing to keep in mind, it ain’t a done deal until contracts have been signed and deposits paid.  I think that today’s welcome news justifies an increase in optimism, no more, and I’m glad that Graham seems to be firming up on what he thinks should be our plan ‘B’ if the whole thing falls through again.

I shall have to take control back when or rather if we get to exchange of contracts–Graham will be far too busy packing between then and our actual moving day.

So, while I tend to a cautious view, we are getting excited once more.  It’s good to be excited.  Life would be awfully dull if you couldn’t have just a little excitement in it.

Nothing wrong with happy

Tuesday August 26, 2008

I’m going through a peculiar phase.  Happy as the day is long when, perhaps, I should be miserable.  Try as I may, though, I’m happy.

Being miserable can be more productive, certainly more eventful. It was once suggested to me that, to write poetry, one needs some discomfort in one’s life, perhaps tending towards misery.  Yes, well, perhaps.

For the moment, I’ll settle for happy.  Nothing wrong with happy. When nothing happens, it pays to be happy the live-long day.

No end to the way

Monday August 25, 2008

I’m astonished.  I wrote a new poem yesterday and am all a’quiver with the experience.  First time for an age, seems to me.  Popped a copy here, and as a submission for c&c on my writing group.  Some interest and considerable puzzlement came back.  As always, people tell me things about what I’ve done that I didn’t know.

Will it happen again?  Who knows?  I scribble and hum bits of poetry all the happy day long.  Few of them ever gather momentum and mass sufficient to form something that might become a poem after a while.

It’s enough for me to know that I’ve gathered a few poems about me on the way.  It’s the way that matters to me and I’m happy that, today, it hasn’t ended yet.

And, today was the last of the Bank Holiday weekend.  Tomorrow children return to school and people return to work.  Most important, solicitors and clerks return to their desk;  let’s hope our house sale and purchase files are close to the top of the piles.  This house move is a business that’s way past its end-by date.

A new poem

A POET, UNSEEN

I wonder if Stephen,
puzzled beyond endearment
that his river ran
where his words never would
or could
and,
enduring,
breaking lines in unseemly places
where the paper ran out,
he saw things in coffins that
never would or should be
seen.

John Bailey,

Somerset, August 2008

Giggling snowcaps

Sunday August 24, 2008

There’s little or no excitement to be had of the middle day of a three-day Bank Holiday weekend.  Closest we came to excitement was when we dashed out in a great rush to bring in a lineful of washing as it came on to rain.  Closest we came to hilarity was when Dolly decided she must, really must go out in the face of a sheeting squall of rain, stopped in horror when the first drops hit, and dashed back before you could say ’silly old cat’.

Hey ho.  Perhaps the pace will pick up tomorrow.  If not, I have an itchy feeling about Tuesday, the first day back to work for those who indulge in such an uncomfortable occupation.  Things may happen on Tuesday.

Yesterday’s extended pop concert continued rattling in my mind but has now turned back to the classics where I’m more at ease.  Before I leave it, though, of the three concerts I youtub-ed in yesterday’s entry, I attended the David Bowie Serious Moonlight  in London, and a one-off Kinks concert in Brighton.  Sadly, I was on the wrong continent for the Simon and Garfunkle show.

And, returning to more familiar ground, I watched the little noddy-heads of Charlie, our Cyclamen, dancing in the breeze this afternoon.  Daffodils may dance in April but in August you can’t beat the giggling snowcaps of hardy cyclamen.

Charlie, our cyclamen

A groovy meme

Saturday August 23, 2008

Life settles down, and we’re realigned after yesterday’s upset.  Took a bit of doing, though, including major joshing and not a little comforting.

So, today, I turned my mind to the question of ‘memes’.  Disregarding the dubious progeniture of the word, I thought of three concerts I’d dearly like to have attended.  Two of them, I did attend or, at least, one concert of a tour.  Can you guess the one I didn’t?

 

 

So, can you pick up the ‘meme’, and run with it?  No problem if you can’t.