Sunday, November 01, 2015

First day of November


I'm going to try to post every day in November, how about that! ('try to', I'm told, is to set oneself up to fail).

I began this post with a rather Eeyore-ish, sic-transit, something-rotten-in-the-state-of-Blogland, I've-got-nothing-to-say-any-more, quasi-lament, but I wiped it and wrote (then corrected) the above line instead.

When I first started here, nine years ago now, I used to get up at six in the morning, come and sit in front of the computer and just write. Sometimes I took a bit longer over preparing special posts and editing photos and so on, but essentially it was a matter of regular practice. Things ebb and flow, come and go, of course, but perhaps there's still a value in setting a time and making a commitment; that I'll find something to say and to share by doing so, and if the Blogmuse has grown flabby, menopausal and sluggardly, eschewing flights of poetry and other raptures in favour of a comfy chair, knitting and endless repeats of Midsomer Murders, well it won't do any harm to make her take a bit more regular exercise, and maybe take the camera with her. Also, no excuses about the hassle of downloading and editing photos on the big computer, I shall just stick the SD card into this one and lift the odd picture straight from it, with only the minimal editing (cropping and a bit of instant polish) this machine enables. No 6 am starts though, but maybe 6 pm instead.

So, here we are at Toussaint, and you would think it summer, even now, at half past six in the evening, it feels more like June at midnight. A sudden recollection came to me this morning that I had let another birthday creep up without a card dispatched; I have been very hit-or-miss with them this year, but this is one I usually do manage. My apologetic e-mail brought a swift and cheerful reply, which spoke of moorland walks, brunches of scrambled eggs, Guy Fawkes Night fireworks at the local cricket club and pub meals, all of which induced a certain nostalgie de pays, in a nice way. I cleared my desk and undertook to finish a gift. A deckchair - already put away in the garage for the winter but easily retrieved - and knitting in the sun. What a bummer.


Even the a***hole (that's how we spell it in British English, with and 'ar') chasseurs were remarkably quiet most of the day, with just a few silly pooty noised on their little horns and a few bangs and barking dogs in the distance, presumably they had moslty been dragged off to the cemeteries to deposit chrysanthemums.

I was interrupted only by a late peacock butterfly, which landed and rested in the sun on the back of my hand, cleaned its front legs on its long curled tongue, and opened and closed its frayed wings while the breeze ruffled the soft, surprisingly long, brown fur on the back of its body, for at least five minutes. I decided the underside of its wings was really almost as beautiful as the colourful part, and would probably be my preferred choice for curtains, and offered it a lick of the butterscotch sweet Tom had just brought out to me (uxorious, see).  However, it declined, and only went on its way when I late blowfly alighted further up my arm and I made a reflex swat towards it.

I didn't have the camera then, and probably couldn't have photographed it if I had, but brought it out later and pointed it around a bit. But that will do for today.



9 comments:

Zhoen said...

That'll do.

Beth said...

Delighted to hear this, Lucy. I'll be reading!

Jeff said...

Best of luck on your writing-every-day resolution! I'll be checking in for sure.

Roderick Robinson said...

A post every day throughout November. Well here's a subject for a day when subjects are thin on the ground. What goes through your mind when you watch Midsomer Murders? Look, I'm not trying to be sarky superior, I've never seen a single episode although I am aware of the consensus that the programme deals with genocide writ small.

Even so I worry. You live in a foreign land (a very foreign land) and this impulse - less nostalgie de la boue and much more nostalgie de la tue - is born out out of deep-seated and ineradicable longing for Biscuit-tin Britain. Look, you mustn't come back. Your deracinated foreignness is a major advantage, perhaps even your USP.

You are our traveller from an antique land, with lots of Ozymandius stories yet to tell. In the Home Counties you'd merely be an eccentric. Don't do it Luce.

Avus said...

Good oh Lucy! We bloggers must keep the old flag flying. I seem to do a post when the "feeling is on me" and then I gravitate to the PC. I was always a poor keeper of diaries and could not manage a post a day. Although Pepys did just that and what a memoire we have from him. (Although I guess we petty men live in less interesting times)

Chloe said...

I look forward to reading your posts Lucy! I don't get around to commenting on blogs as much as I used to but I am still here reading and enjoying your blog :) x

Lucy said...

Thanks all.

Z - cheers!

Beth - that's nice to know!

Jeff - very complimentary, your calendar poem is so inspiring, gave me a boost.

Robbie - now, ré Midsomer (and remember, it was the muse I was talking about, not necessarily myself, it could have been a metaphor), I know I am in danger of getting predictable and repetitive, but one of the big attractions of it is it is great knitting telly, since it is soothing as only stylised murder can be, undemanding and of decent length, with advert breaks for fetching wine and checking the pattern. In fact though, I do enjoy it; it always keeps its tongue firmly in its cheek, never gets portentous or pretentious or grandiose unlike some detective fiction telly we could name, or indeed depressing, and is often genuinely funny. Plus it now has a really nice dog in it. As to the genocide, its victims are the denizens of les plus belles villages of middle England, surely that's worth cheering on? Fear not, I am not in any danger of repatriation to the land of my birth if I can help it, even if the UK does cut its moorings and living here gets considerably harder. What would be the French equivalent of biscuit tin Britain, I wonder? Wine label France? Bonne Maman jam advert France, that film Amelie?

Avus - I'm very pleased and appreciative that you're still about, posting sometimes and visiting regularly. Keep it up!

Chloe - and you are a darling, I'm always pleased to see you, and your beautiful work.

polish chick said...

how meditative and calming, to be the resting place for a butterfly for five minutes! if that doesn't make you slow down, then nothing can.
i've been tempted (for about 30 seconds or so) to do the november daily blogging whatsit, but i can't be bothered considering everything that leaves my mind/fingers of late is of the dark and cranky variety. i certainly don't want to feed my demons by giving them a forum from which to snarl at the universe at large. i'm glad you were able to banish yours!

Julia said...

Hello Lucy :)