After two or three (one week away from school and I cannot function with regard to what day it is) days of mostly sleeping I am finally awake. This is, of course, ironic, given that tomorrow the interminable treadmill of work/school/endless chores resumes again and I will be a twisted husk of tiredness and shattered dreams by the week’s end. Still, the things I may do in the 48 hours in which I will be functioning at optimum efficiency may possibly drag me through the next six weeks to Easter.
Who am I kidding?
The news is unspeakable. Just the bleakest of the bleak. The only possible cheer I can glean from the gigantic shit show that is current affairs is that political assassination seems to be coming back into fashion. No. I am not sorry that this is a terrible thing to say. I am, as long term readers will vouch, a terrible person who is generally only motivated to do nice things by a) the promise of cake, b) the fact that I don’t want my children to be too ashamed of me and c) the fact that doing nice things generally pisses people more terrible than me off.
I have been cheered by the hashtag PaulNuttalFacts and I urge you to check it out if you are vacillating between weeping and throwing your hands in the air or laughing until you’re sick. It sort of scratches the itch a tiny bit.
I have spent half term avoiding most hard core news. Instead I have been desultorily posting blurry images on Instagram and looking at other people’s less blurry pictures. I have been doing some therapeutic work on myself in recent weeks, and am feeling rather emotionally fragile and not really up to full blown social media immersion and the horror of my usual forensic news reading. I realise that the last sentence sounds unspeakably wanky. I have wrestled with how to describe it, and really I’m just not prepared to commit to anything more detailed. It’s all good. It’s all progress but it feels rather like weaving cobwebs and hoping they’ll keep holding me up for the foreseeable future. It’s not something I feel ready to stand on my soap box about yet.
In more cheering news.
I have finished reading Alys Fowler’s, Hidden Nature. It was gorgeous. A truly lovely book. It kind of reminded me of Amy Liptrot’s The Outrun, which was also beautiful. It has that same confessional/natural world vibe going on. I also finished reading Marlon James’ A Brief History of Seven Killings. I really did not like this. I am sure it is worthy and literary and very good for you and all of that, and is undoubtedly going to be a classic etc. Having said all of those things I found it a 700 page endurance test which I did not actually enjoy. One day I’m going to learn how to put down books I don’t like without finishing them, and it will be a marvellous moment. I am now reading, Here I Am by Jonathan Safran Foer. I am loving it.
My friend Nicki and I went to see Sue Perkins do her thang last night at De Montfort Hall in Leicester. It’s a one woman show based on her book Spectacles. I loved the book. I love Sue, and it was a few hours of absolute delight. We didn’t want it to finish and we were both a bit tearful at the end, because really, these days you have to snatch all the joy wherever you find it. She took questions at the end. One person asked about her show Supersizers Go, which she did with Giles Coren. Her memories of it were hilarious and it has inspired me to go back and watch them all again on Youtube.
Musically I’m revisiting Beck’s O’Delay album, listening to the new Elbow album in preparation for seeing them in March and enjoying Angel Olsen and The Wombats. Spotify is a marvellous thing.
Food wise I’ve been cooking from The Three Sisters Quick and Easy Indian Cookbook over the last few days. It does exactly what it says on the tin. Simple, pared down recipes that still give great flavour and are easy peasy to put together. My favourite so far has been the potato and spinach curry. The Tandoori recipe is good too, although I always add stacks more chilli, because we like the flavour but prefer more heat. It looks rather like one of those cheap, churned out cook books that are the cookery book equivalent of menus with photographs of the food next to the description, but it’s far from it. I’m really pleased with it so far and will be exploring it in more depth in the next few weeks.
Now I have to go and shout at small boys about cycling proficiency and basketball lessons (not at the same time, although this appeals to me) and teenage girls about whether that amount of eyeliner is a health and safety hazard. I need to talk to older teenage girls about what the tortoise is doing wedged there. I need to talk to myself about the ninety six crucial lists I have to get to grips with next week and Jason as to why a bobble head Yoda has suddenly appeared on the kitchen cabinets.
The cat is having a nervous breakdown because the cat from Norway (that got stuck in the doorway) has decided to take over our garden and she is cowering under the barbecue, panting, because it won’t even have to extend a claw to kill her. It will just squash her with its mighty, Norwegian girth. Jason is flailing about a golf course with our friend Rob who he co-erced into going with him. This means the house will soon be full of random trip hazards and clots of churned up earth, and I still haven’t decided what to do for dinner because it’s Sunday and I opted out of thinking.
A fool to myself.