The Helmet Byron wore when liberating Greece. The legend is, I believe, bigger than the truth.
I would say “it’s early on Sunday morning” but it isn’t. It’s almost ten. Julia has heaped up the bedding to for a bulwark against the cold and is refusing to move and I have been pottering instead of doing anything useful. Let’s face it, I always potter or procrastinate or, possibly, putter. I had to use a Thesaurus for that last one as my supply of P words proved to be inadequate for the task in hand. I’ve also been Googling Australian writers in WW1 after a comment from Paolsoren. I actually know more about American writers in WW1 than I do about Australian ones, and that isn’t much.
I know that e e cummings and Hemingway served as ambulance drivers, that Alan Seeger served in the French Foreign Legion, Joyce Kilmer wrote a poem about a tree, and was a man, despite the name, and nothing much else.
And that, on a cold Sunday morning, is where I have ground to a halt. With little more than 150 words done from my modest target of 250 written, I have run out of things to say.
Time, I think, to make bacon cobs for breakfast. If bacon doesn’t do the trick I may have to admit that my brain has closed for winter. Talking of that, I am reminded that I have quite a few submissions to do in December. That’s always good for a few hundred words as, despite the evidence, I always worry that I might not be able to think of anything to write this time.
Water feature at Newstead Abbey.
But first, bacon . . .
And so the day passed . . .
Eventually, having put the vegetable stew on to cook, I have made it back to the keyboard. Quiz shows have come and gone, a second-rate film with Dick van Dyke and family has passed, time has flowed, or ebbed, depending on where you are standing and, as far as I know mighty empires have crumbled and fallen, though I suspect they might have announced it on TV if that had happened.
And then, bit by bit, I watch TV and make sandwiches for tomorrow and waste time in a dozen different ways until it is time to finish this off and go to bed. And so a day that seemed to have so many possibilities has been frittered once again.
Picture from behind the waterfall at Newstead Abbey.
Pictures are from Julia’s visit to Narnia/Newstead Abbey yesterday.
We all have Sundays like that. In any case brains need a bit of downtime. Time to recalibrate.
That’s what I’ll call it – recalibration! Sounds better than most of the words that come to mind. 🙂
It was very convenient to have the assistant photographer’s work to hand to fill up your post with interest. Perhaps you could have asked her to contribute some text on her visit as well to ease the burden on you. I don’t like the thought of you being oppressed by 250 words.
She spoils me, but doesn’t share my enthusiasm for spreading news of my tedious days and pointless life. I may have to keep writing it myself.
Why bother about the word count? I don’t know why I have never asked you that before. You always entertain, whatever the length
I always think I should have a decent shot at it. If nothing else, it prevents me becoming too minimalist. Lavinia sent me a link about a book she thought might interest you.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Mousehole_Cat
Thanks for the fascinating link
It looks quite interesting, though stargazey pie would not be my first choice if I saw it on a menu. 🙂
Those are very nice photos from Newstead Abbey. Enjoy your Sundays. Mondays come soon enough. 🙂
It was nice enough here this afternoon to rake leaves here and start mulching garden beds.
Yes, Mondays always have come quickly. When I was a child I hated Sunday evenings because it meant school was looming. 🙂