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desperanceBear with me, I'm feeling sentimental.
It's very odd being the one who goes to the airport and just comes away again, nothing to do but head home and try to fill the empty spaces. I'm usually the one who's moving on; this is a new dispensation, and I don't believe I like it.
She's left feminine things in the bathroom, diet Dr Pepper in the kitchen, a half-drunk glass of wine in the living room, me apparently in limbo. And a terrible ache in Barry's heart, for she took her suitcase with her, and Barry loves that suitcase with a passion everlasting. Like me, he is wandering the house forlornly, seeking hope in dusty corners where none is to be found.
On the consolatory side are the other kinds of leftovers, of which we have a plethora. I was totally in the zone yesterday, cookwise (can we say "displacement activity", anyone?): I made prawn and mushroom curry with pilao rice for lunch, bacon-and-gruyere cake for snacking on, chicken roasted with a barley-risotto stuffing for dinner. And a vasty cauldron full of chicken stock. There are bits left over from all of that. And then there's all the traditional Xmas leftovers, smoked salmon and cakes and so forth. Tho' the Xmas cake is no longer as beautiful as it was, after the boys knocked it off the table. In its tin, fortunately, but even so...
I did promise Karen I'd go to the pub with a friend tonight, but she's not here to check up on me, so shhh, maybe I'll just stay home and munch leftovers. Maybe I'll have smoked salmon and scrambled eggs for brunch, then drift into town to check out the sales, maybe. If I found lots of things I liked and didn't buy them, maybe I'd save enough to justify the new David Thompson, which is a book of extraordinary size and desirability. I'm not sure how practical it is as a cookbook, but oh, it is a thing of loveliness. And forty quid, which is why it is not mine; but only twenty on Amazon...
Nah. No retail therapy unjustified by industry. I feel like a leftover novelist, cold and a little clammy, quite unappealing on the face of it. I need warming through. Possibly in California, but I have a book to write before then. So work it is. Warming from the inside out, like microwaves.
It's very odd being the one who goes to the airport and just comes away again, nothing to do but head home and try to fill the empty spaces. I'm usually the one who's moving on; this is a new dispensation, and I don't believe I like it.
She's left feminine things in the bathroom, diet Dr Pepper in the kitchen, a half-drunk glass of wine in the living room, me apparently in limbo. And a terrible ache in Barry's heart, for she took her suitcase with her, and Barry loves that suitcase with a passion everlasting. Like me, he is wandering the house forlornly, seeking hope in dusty corners where none is to be found.
On the consolatory side are the other kinds of leftovers, of which we have a plethora. I was totally in the zone yesterday, cookwise (can we say "displacement activity", anyone?): I made prawn and mushroom curry with pilao rice for lunch, bacon-and-gruyere cake for snacking on, chicken roasted with a barley-risotto stuffing for dinner. And a vasty cauldron full of chicken stock. There are bits left over from all of that. And then there's all the traditional Xmas leftovers, smoked salmon and cakes and so forth. Tho' the Xmas cake is no longer as beautiful as it was, after the boys knocked it off the table. In its tin, fortunately, but even so...
I did promise Karen I'd go to the pub with a friend tonight, but she's not here to check up on me, so shhh, maybe I'll just stay home and munch leftovers. Maybe I'll have smoked salmon and scrambled eggs for brunch, then drift into town to check out the sales, maybe. If I found lots of things I liked and didn't buy them, maybe I'd save enough to justify the new David Thompson, which is a book of extraordinary size and desirability. I'm not sure how practical it is as a cookbook, but oh, it is a thing of loveliness. And forty quid, which is why it is not mine; but only twenty on Amazon...
Nah. No retail therapy unjustified by industry. I feel like a leftover novelist, cold and a little clammy, quite unappealing on the face of it. I need warming through. Possibly in California, but I have a book to write before then. So work it is. Warming from the inside out, like microwaves.