sinking fowl

Cormorants often look as though they're sinking. It seems like they're struggling to stay afloat, like they need to get the better of their buoyancy. I watch them from my window, their dark shapes barely bobbing along the top of the water. I expect them to disappear underneath the surface but they never do.

Time's sped up and March has arrived. The bitter cold today suggests that once again those heralding the start of Spring (myself included) have been a touch premature. Whether this cold is an anomaly or the beginning of another cold snap is beyond my meteorological capacity to predict. Even the Met Office seem noncommittal.

Life's been mostly quiet. Writing comes in starts and stops and while the clarity of my goals is pristine, my discipline still wants for patience.

A couple of nights ago an impromptu dinner party lit the flat up with wine, banter and goodwill. Nothing elaborate - penne bolognese with Ben & Jerry's and a supermarket chocolate tart for dessert. Chat ranged from bar friend etiquette, to pick-up lines, to the sorts of acrobatic feats on display in certain strip clubs. Lines that seemed etched in legend at the time now fade in memory, drowned out by the echoes tear-streamed laughter. That all-consuming outburst that you get lost in, laughing so hard you can't breathe. It seemed endless and then it ended, the guests head home and my flatmate and I sat sipping beers, watching The Boss raise hell at the Hammersmith Odeon in '75.

These unplanned blips punctuate my life at the moment; an unexpected dinner party, a trip to see my god-daughter, the odd evening of improv comedy (I'm performing again and loving it).

I need these things. It all blends together otherwise.

Without them I'd be staring out the window, wondering if the cormorants are sinking.