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desperanceOut front of my house there's a wee fence, with a gate in it. It's only a yard from the house, but hey, it's a territory-marker.
Also, the gate squeaks. Loudly. I love this: it's an early-warning system, that I'm about to get a visitor or more likely something unnecessary shoved through my letter-box.
This time of day, late morning, it's postman-time. I'm not as neurotic about the post as I used to be (E-Mail Changed My Life, vol 17, ch 3), but I still like to hear its coming: squeak of the gate, patter of envelopes, slam of letter-box closing behind 'em.
This morning, because I have been having Days Off, I was downstairs reading Scott Lynch in the living-room when I heard the squeak of the gate, and a moment later saw the postman walk away from my house.
Oddly, I hadn't heard the patter or the slam (and my letter-box has a devil of a spring on it, it makes a big slam). Barry didn't even jump off my knee, the way he usually does when the post comes.
So we went to look, and there was none. No mail. The postman had come to my door, and not delivered. It was a content-free posting.
So is this. I have, as I say, been having Days Off: ever since Tuesday, when I got up and sat here and wrote, um, two sentences, and beached.
This is, of course, ridiculous. I'm a chapter-and-a-fight from the end of the book, and I know what happens all the way. I'm not stuck. I'm ever so slightly unwell, but it's only a wee bit of a cold and I only seem to have symptoms half the day; there is no reason why I shouldn't be working. Granted that my play is back, which serves me an excuse, but it's an increasingly ineffective one: Tuesday I could slope off to rehearsals mid-morning, yesterday mid-afternoon, but today not till the evening. Even so, conspicuously, not working. Not even thinking about it. Not till tomorrow. (There was, um, a poetry book? No, an album. A Ralph McTell album, called 'not ... till tomorrow'. God knows what that meant.)
So we opened last night at the Customs House; tonight we close. I call that a tight little run. The play's good, it's working well: better, perhaps, than the first run. Tighter, edgier, I think. Here's a review of last night.
Also, the gate squeaks. Loudly. I love this: it's an early-warning system, that I'm about to get a visitor or more likely something unnecessary shoved through my letter-box.
This time of day, late morning, it's postman-time. I'm not as neurotic about the post as I used to be (E-Mail Changed My Life, vol 17, ch 3), but I still like to hear its coming: squeak of the gate, patter of envelopes, slam of letter-box closing behind 'em.
This morning, because I have been having Days Off, I was downstairs reading Scott Lynch in the living-room when I heard the squeak of the gate, and a moment later saw the postman walk away from my house.
Oddly, I hadn't heard the patter or the slam (and my letter-box has a devil of a spring on it, it makes a big slam). Barry didn't even jump off my knee, the way he usually does when the post comes.
So we went to look, and there was none. No mail. The postman had come to my door, and not delivered. It was a content-free posting.
So is this. I have, as I say, been having Days Off: ever since Tuesday, when I got up and sat here and wrote, um, two sentences, and beached.
This is, of course, ridiculous. I'm a chapter-and-a-fight from the end of the book, and I know what happens all the way. I'm not stuck. I'm ever so slightly unwell, but it's only a wee bit of a cold and I only seem to have symptoms half the day; there is no reason why I shouldn't be working. Granted that my play is back, which serves me an excuse, but it's an increasingly ineffective one: Tuesday I could slope off to rehearsals mid-morning, yesterday mid-afternoon, but today not till the evening. Even so, conspicuously, not working. Not even thinking about it. Not till tomorrow. (There was, um, a poetry book? No, an album. A Ralph McTell album, called 'not ... till tomorrow'. God knows what that meant.)
So we opened last night at the Customs House; tonight we close. I call that a tight little run. The play's good, it's working well: better, perhaps, than the first run. Tighter, edgier, I think. Here's a review of last night.