The house still smells of chutney, days later. Since the jars are under low pressure after the lids popping, and the washing-up done, this remains mysterious.
Was watching the sleepers last night, allowing me to pour wine at 10 am with a clear conscience. After pulling off a 13 hr shift, I give myself permission. Chatted to a few of my Limax
slug friends last night on the porch, but was loathe to spend much time out there because the outside light is broken, and am frightened I will unknowingly step on one of my little pals. I accidentally squashed a snail last shift and spent the night in remorse. But somebody benefitted, because its poor mangled corpse was gone in the morning- some bird's breakfast I suspect, although I would like to imagine that a snail ambulance had taken him/her away to snail A&E.
Someone is glad to see me home. Her Catness was miaowing piteously as I trudged up the stair, answered with my own miaows. It probably annoys the neighbours, but that's just part of tenement living. I wonder if She miaows at anyone's footsteps when She's lonely, or just mine? Apparently Ezra Pound and his wife always greeted each other with miaows.
Just finished re-reading Nabokov's 'Speak, Memory'
, an autobiography. God, he can write, and English was just one of his languages. Sometimes he goes too far, as when he describes his brother as being born 'caesareanally', but oh the sentence structure and the vocabulary... His description of his synaesthesia (phonetic sounds had colours and shapes for both him and his mother) is gripping and oddly comprehensible to a non-synaesthete. At 3 am, Nabokov is too much for me, but I got through the whole of Peter Andre's execrable autobiography in a couple of hours last night. It was left behind by a sleeper, BTW- I try not to purchase muck (except for the odd copy of Chat or Heat when poorly).
Parents' night at the wee wan's school last night, at which they had only good things to say of her (as usual). Of course, I'm concerned that she's not in the top maths group, but that's a Lake Woebegone fallacy, where 'all the children are above average' in all subjects. I've been trying to show her some simple algebra (not using those terms), and she really doesn't want to know. Just don't want her to be scared of it, as I was for years. Big wan is barely seen these days, and according to wee wan is playing 'tongue tennis' with one of his (female) friends which I regard as not my business. On the way to the parent consultation, his dad (after instructing me not to smoke in his car, which I wasn't) delivered some Majoresque homily about promiscuity to big wan, to which I had to ask whether he wished that big wan be affianced before kissing, or that he join up with the Silver Ring Thing. Jesus wept. His dad and I met at the age that big wan is now- has he forgotten, or now cognitively explained it away as a 20+ year disaster? There be monsters.
Recently got in email touch with a boyfriend from the psychedelic Berkeley summer when I was 16. He's in Kansas now, and reassuringly similar to what I remember- still a musician, social activist and artist. And he (and his wife) look barely older than I remember, so they've been doing something right. Unfortunately I learn that his best friend and collaborator from that time took his own life in 1998. I realise that this comes out of illness (tautologically), but am selfishly quite angry with him for that act. Having kiddos is a wonderful deterrant- maybe they should prescribe it on the NHS.
It's a beautiful day outside, and my bed is calling. Zzzzz, snore.