A round-up is called for, I think.
We were in Kerry, last weekend. It is majestic, as you can see even from these poor quality phone camera shots, taken in the rain.
The sheer scale! The vistas go on and on!
You must come and see it for yourselves. I insist upon it.
But bring your wet gear.
We had to come home a day early because Someone made a mistake and thought his flight was on the Wednesday. In fact it was on the Tuesday, as suspected by Someone Else, being me.
When he left for his ill-fated conference (it was to be held in New Orleans, but Hurricane Isaac had other plans, and he washed up in Boston with his sibling, the non-trembling one), I felt the usual five minute painful wrench of separation, after which I cheered myself up by listing all the things that make being alone beneficial:
- Sleeping in the middle of the bed like a starfish
- Watching whatever I want, including soothing (to me) programmes about restoring houses, the ones that give you the illusion of the satisfaction of a job well done, but without the actual hard labour
- And other soppy rubbish some of which I have seen before but still want to watch
- Things being found where I left them
- Absence of puddles of milk on countertop/cornflakes scattered on the floor
- No need to step over Someone doing his sit-ups in the middle of the floor
It's a paltry list, of course, compared to things like laughter, affection and company, but life has at least a veneer of novelty when he's away, as long as I know he is returning soon. I heard recently on the radio that social isolation is as bad for you as smoking 15 cigarettes a day. So working at home on one's own-ee-oo, especially when also living along, presumably, is actually physically harmful? How unfair! And, wait a minute, what harm does working in a job do to you, then, I'd like to know? True, you avoid isolation, but as we have noted, the work is not quite the 24 hour party either.
I conclude that life is an impossible balancing act, as on many previous occasions.
(Aside: I do wonder if I am actually a Martian. Things that other people find totally acceptable and normal, I stumble over and spend an age trying to come to terms with. Whoa! I say. A 40 hour work week? MADNESS. I never agreed to that.)
Work itself, though, will never cease to fascinate me. The compromises people make, the status they derive from it, the very concept of going to this other place every day to make yourself useful? And more that that, the allegiances, the politics, the power, the cast of characters? All very interesting, rich pickings, indeed, for a writer.
Speaking of writing, did I mention The Experiment? I am devoting these months until Christmas to writing comics. I can't tell you how much fun this is. I even have a system. I devote the first three hours of the day to the comics - a complete revelation. It's manageable, more measured, allows a steady progress - rather than the frustrating headlong rush at the Big Deadline. Then in the afternoon, I can do commercial jobs, or (more likely) (let's be honest, here) lollygag around the locality in various coffee shops.
The spectre of Hard Cash: the need to make thereof is looming in the distance, but can be kept at bay till the new year, at least, when the headless chicken act will recommence.
How about you? I hope your heads are firmly attached.
would like to follow me on my work blog, you'd be most welcome. It's a
no-commenting type place, so there is no danger of anyone other than you
(who already know all about me, and my innards, Heaven help you.)
following you back here. If you see what I mean. And you needn't tell me
who you are. Have I confused you enough with that? I think I have.]