Tag Archives: clocks forward

Day 86

We had pizza delivered last night because they were doing a Mothers’ Day Special. We had leftover pizza tonight. Last night we had coleslaw, tonight we had leftover coleslaw with a few extra bits thrown in. At least I made that myself. I can’t help reflecting that my mother would probably be disappointed in my current culinary efforts.

That thought naturally moved on to others of parental disappointment and mortality, leading inevitably to a blog post that was unusable. This is happening too often these days. I need to get the tendency under control because it makes blogging a lot longer if you have to discard alternate posts.

I’ve now ground to a halt and still have 150 words to do. It’s a sign of how dull my life is that I have nothing to offer. The clocks went forward an hour last night, well most of them did. In the morning I will have to reset the car clock, which is always an effort as I don’t remember how to do it because it’ six months since the last time. It’s always the way. It’s the same with computers – I have been able to do some quite complicated stuff at times but once I stop doing it I forget after a few months and am never able to do it again.

I now have 29 words to do, and my 250 target will have been met. I imagine that I will have managed that by the end of this sentence and won’t have had to use a single ounce of effort or idea.

In fact I am way past 250 now and talking of nothing.

I should have been a politician . . .

 

 

 

 

 

From Bed to Verse

Post 2,313

28th January 2021

As usual, nothing of importance to relate. I woke while it was still half-dark and had to look at my phone for a time check. The clocks went forward in the night so we lost an hour and I can no longer tell the time by the degree of light outside.

Temperatures have dropped from yesterday, it is windy and there are flecks of rain on the window. From what I remember of setting up my WordPress account it would be called something like “Standard Autumn”  or even  “Just Grey”.

All the normal things happened, the ones I normally filter out of my daily posts – trouser troubles, stiff knees, feeling the gaps when I brush my teeth.

I found myself thinking about prostates this morning. It’s my age. part of me says that I really ought to have a serious conversation with a doctor. Part of me says that I do not want to be part of any conversation that occurs whilst I have my back turned to a stranger wearing rubber gloves. Even worse, a conversation with someone I know, who is wearing rubber gloves.

That led me on to Richard Mabey. When I was last in male urology I was in the middle of reading one of his books and Clare Pooley suggested another of his books when I was convalescing. He ended up in male urology at one point and used the experience to write about water, internal and external, in a a philosophical manner. I used the experience to complain about the NHS, including sandwiches made with white bread and two cancelled operations. I seem to lack the spiritual dimension needed to be a great nature writer. I could, however, have had a lucrative and fulfilling career as a management consultant in the NHS if my life had turned out differently. Or as John Lewis-Stempel. I wouldn’t mind being John Lewis-Stempel.

This is an interesting thought but not one I’m going to dwell on as i have things to do. Poems don’t write themselves, and, as yet, there is no such thing as self-spreading marmalade. That would be a great advance – no more balancing knives and pots on corners of my desk where papers and pill packets haven’t spread. No more juggling, no more sticky patches on the desk, or fluff on toast.

I must make a note of that. But first I must write poems. I am feeling in a very Limerick mood.

A Suffolk blogger called Pooley,
has a name that rhymes with Gilhooley.
It could have been worse,
in this sort of verse,
it often ends up rhymed with…

…that probably needs a bit of work. It may also not work for Americans as I am not sure. I just checked the dictionary and things got even more confused. On top of that, and following the nature writer theme, I find there is a man called Tristan Gooley. Words fail me. And that is not a common occurrence. And this was going to be such a subtle ending…