Now. 02.33.

Feels like I should be sitting in the cabin of a small boat, somewhere off Martha’s Vineyard, drunk and making jokes about women breaking my heart, while the Great White circles unseen. Or maybe I should be the one singing Ladies of Spain in the gravely old voice of a gravely old sea dog.

Women have broken my heart through the ages, you know. They have. And they continue so to do. A car passes me on the lane, and my heart cracks with the report of a shotgun.

‘Bout time I grew up, I think, some time before I die. Yet again.

For now – no boats, no Great Whites, no jokes, no songs, just drunk. It’s an easy life this time round.

A Kind of Failure.

It seems a curious fact that I’ve always found the pursuit of the unattainable more compelling than aspiring to the attainable. I wonder why that is. Could it stem from a subconscious need to fail so as to vindicate my low opinion of myself? Or is that too Freudian? Is it really more to do with having a taste for the fantastical?

Well, whatever. The unfortunate fact is that the seemingly unattainable has often been gained, which is probably part of my tragedy: not setting my sights high enough.

Night Sights.

The walk was a strange one tonight. My attention was arrested by the sight of orange lights a little way above the high ground on the far side of the river. There were maybe twenty or thirty of them forming a roughly semi-circular pattern, and they climbed far higher than could be accounted for by any land based phenomenon. They were certainly not stars, since they were the wrong colour, too closely packed, and the sky was completely cloud covered. My only guess is that they were distant street lamps being reflected from the cloud base. I’ve never seen anything like them before.

On the way back I looked through the window of the pub and saw several young couples exhibiting standard young couples' body language. It’s so transparent when you know what to look for. And it struck me that life can be a bit of a pain sometimes. It gives you bags of knowledge and experience, but not until you’re past being able to use it.

I walked away into the darkness and talked to the trees, as I usually do. It seemed that something pale and misty began gathering among the branches, so I stood and watched it for a while until it disappeared again. I swear there’s something sentient out there, you know. Something that’s aware of me.

Ah well, I currently have what some would consider the very best of companions – a mug of hot tea. That will have to do for now.

Watching Paint Dry.

I wrote a story once called Being Bertie. It’s currently under contract to a magazine, which is why I’ve never put it up at the other blog. But it’s been so for about three years now, and there are signs that the publisher is defunct, so maybe I will one of these days.

Anyway, the main character is called Bertram Brotherton-Jones, and is based very much on me. The MC of the following story – Tommy – is a later incarnation of Bertie, and rather further removed from me. I hope.

The story is very short, taking less than five minutes to read. I wrote it simply to rise to the challenge of writing a story about watching paint dry.

*  *  *

Tommy hummed and sang quietly to himself.

‘Oh, da da-da da da you fine Spanish ladies. Dee dee dee-dee dee dum you ladies of Spain...’

sniff

He was sitting on a camping stool, leaning forward with his arms wrapped tightly across his chest. Every so often he would raise both eyebrows and pucker his lips. Sometimes he opened his eyes extra wide and tilted his head slightly.

‘I wonder how long this is going to take.’

He picked up the can and squinted at the instructions.

‘Mmm. Touch dry in four to eight hours, re-coatable in sixteen to twenty four, depending on conditions. Shit! That’s a long time.’

He put the can down and wrapped his arms firmly about his chest again. A strident sound rent the air and startled him. It was the stirring strains of Rule, Britannia coming from his mobile phone. He picked it up and pressed the green button.

‘Yes?’

‘Hi, Tommy.’

‘Oh, hi Trish.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Watching the door dry.’

‘What?’

‘Well, not the door, obviously. Ha ha. As if... The paint. I just painted it.’

There followed a brief silence. Trish was evidently engaged in processing a statement that wasn’t easy to comprehend in conventional terms.

‘Sorry, did I hear you right? You’re watching the paint dry on the door?’

‘Yeah.’

Another, mercifully briefer, moment of silence followed.

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why are you watching the paint dry on the door?’

‘Why not? I’ve never done it before.’

‘Tommy, nobody watches paint dry. That’s why you’ve never done it before. People don’t.’

‘So? I just felt like doing it.’

‘Have you been smoking that extra strong stuff again, the stuff I told you to keep away from?’

‘No.’

‘Have you been drinking?’

‘No.’

‘Taking some medication?’

‘No.’

‘So why the fuck are you watching the fucking paint dry?’

‘Because somebody told me once that listening to me talk was like watching paint dry, so I thought I’d give it a go.’

‘Somebody told you that? To your face?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Weren’t you offended?’

‘No. Why should I be?’

‘Tommy, where’ve you been all your life? Watching paint dry is the epitome of boring!’

‘The what?’

‘Epitome. It means it doesn’t come any better.’

‘So watching paint dry is supposed to be good, then?’

‘NO! It’s the most boring thing you can do. It means people think you’re boring. Get it?’

There was a long pause until Trish said

‘Tommy? You still there? I really didn’t mean to hurt your feelings or anything. You – sort of – asked for it.’

‘That’s OK,’ said Tommy reassuringly. ‘I’ve decided I like watching paint dry. It’s relaxing.’

‘Relaxing?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Oh well, you must be the only person in the whole damn world who finds watching paint dry relaxing! I suppose that makes you sort of interesting.’

Another long pause followed.

‘Tommy?’

‘What?’

‘Did you hear what I just said?’

‘What about?’

‘Tommy, you’re not listening to me, are you? You’d prefer to watch the fucking paint dry!’

‘I’ve told you: it’s relaxing. And there’s really no need for all that language. This isn’t America, you know.’

‘I take it back, Tommy. You’re not interesting, you’re a geek. In fact, you’re fucking weird. Bye, Tommy.’

The line went dead, so Tommy pressed the red button and placed the phone carefully on the floor, strictly parallel with his viewing position. He placed his arms back around his chest.

Sniff, sniff.

‘Hmm, the smell’s getting stronger. That’s good.’

He remembered that gloss paint and varnish always smell strongest when they’re nearly dry, and felt duly encouraged. He’d been dying for a pee for hours, but hadn’t wanted to miss any of the fascinating process which he was currently in the act of observing. Then again...

He deliberated deeply and came to a philosophical conclusion. He decided that watching paint dry is a bit like reading one of those clever novels that foreign blokes write. Getting through them can be quite an effort until you come close to the end, then you don’t want them to stop.

Spending a Life.

I wonder whether the people who design internet ads realise that they’re spending their lives gainfully irritating the crap out of everybody.

A Few Morning Notes.

Dreams

Twice recently I’ve had dreams about women being in situations which caused me concern. On both occasions, simple analysis revealed that the women I was dreaming about were substitutes for somebody else. Does that mean I’m trying to deny something? Interestingly, the scores so far are:

Helen: 1-0
The Priestsess: 0-1
The Lady B: 1-1
(The Woman in America always played herself.)

Are you getting this? This is me baring my soul, this is. Appreciate!

The Raven

... made another appearance this morning. I was looking out of my bedroom window when it came flying towards me. At the last moment it swerved upwards and presumably landed on the roof. On both occasions, it appeared from the south.

Pictures

Ever since I started posting pictures on my blog, there’s been a steady decline in visitors. I find that odd; I thought people liked pictures. Maybe it’s just coincidental.

Wives

My cousin’s husband has started bombarding me with those internet joke pages. The latest one relates to the male view of marriage. The two I like best are:

‘My wife and I were very happy for twenty years. And then we met.’

~Henry Youngman.

‘By all means marry. If you get a good wife, you’ll be happy. If you get a bad one, you’ll become a philosopher.’

~Socrates.

And I do realise that jokes such as these are symptomatic of the ingrained male notions of superior intellect, logic and emotional stability. Discuss.

Better still...

Taking it Too Seriously.

How often have I been told ‘You’re taking this too seriously?’

Well, therein lies a lesson in human nature. We take seriously those things that matter to us, and if the things that matter to us are unconventional, the majority of people just don’t get it. So they tell us ‘You’re taking this too seriously.’

Closing an Avenue.

I have a lifestyle change in the offing. The days are lengthening now, so my night walks are getting later and later. Soon they’ll be encroaching on my bathing and drinking time, and we can’t have that, can we? I’ve set next Wednesday as the final one. That’s the day before the Lady B goes off to get me some boots of Spanish leather (the parallels with which are tenuous to say the least, but there are a few in my ever-so-strange mind.)

So there won’t be any more night walk posts after next week, not until I resume the habit – as I intend to do – later in the summer.

Tonight, some little things kept flitting past me as I walked down the lane. It was raining and nearly dark, so I couldn’t tell whether they were very small bats or very big moths. Or maybe they were very average fairies. Who knows?

Not the Holiday Type.

The issue of holidays has come up. As a kid I loved the summer holiday at the seaside, but since I’ve grown up I’ve had little interest in them. Since the age of sixteen I’ve spent countless periods away from home, but they were nearly all working trips of one sort or another. Only six of them were holidays, and the longest was ten days. The combination of cost and effort always seemed far too excessive for any benefit I could possibly derive from them, so I just never bothered.

Under the Hedge.

By way of countering the note of sourness in today's posts so far, I thought I'd put up this picture. It's typical of the embankments under the hedgrows in this part of the world at this time of year. As the spring moves into summer, we'll get the bigger stuff like cow parsley and willowherb.