je suis returné, plus ça change and many other French sayings...

I no longer have a Belfry, or even a treehouse.

Instead I have the sea again, and that settles all doubts.

St Andrews hasn't changed much.

I think I have. A little.

The view from my window.

evening beer

The mid-evening sun lends its warmth still and I squint down the lane. It’s empty. The fields shine green and gold. The one on the left is vibrant. You can almost hear the veg growing. The air hums – everything’s alive. The farm’s on the left. I wander into the steadings, jingling the coins in my pocket. One of the pigs wanders by the barn door, wondering if I have any food. She’s a Tamworth. I say hi and walk over to the brew house. There’s a hint of malt in the air, amidst that cool, damp stone scent. The 80 /- barrel’s tapped. I drop £4 into the cigar box on the worktop and fill the pitchers. The sun still lights the steadings as I walk out, two pitchers in hand. The lane’s still quiet, the fields still alive.

It strikes me, walking back to the cottage, that this is a stolen moment. Taken from a time of gaslight and horse-drawn carriages; some rural ideal, that maybe never existed in reality, but that people remark on whimsically regardless.

But it’s here, and it’s now, and damn the beer tastes good.

I’m leaving soon. I’m going to miss it.

along came a...

It's been 4 months since I started rewriting chapter 6. Quite a lot has happened in those 4 months.

I've had my first spider bite.

Say what you will about spiders, but in terms of telling tales, having a spider bite is far cooler than a mosquito bite. You never mention mosquito bites. They're boring and annoying. You scratch them when you think no one's looking, hoping no one gets the wrong idea.

With a spider bite, you let folks know. You hope they wince with arachnophobic distaste. You scratch freely and mumble about bastard spiders. Then, when you've been doing this for over a week, you realise something that should have been obvious from the beginning:

Spider bites fucking suck.

They itch more than mosquito bites, they hurt more than mosquito bites and they take ages to heal.

Not as long as chapter 6 is taking to rewrite however. It's irksome and lingering. In the midst of it all sorts of things continue in whirlwind fashion whilst this one chapter floats in limbo, half reformed. It nags me. Moments of relaxation abruptly halted by stabbing anxiety about chapter 6.

So fuck it. I'm going to leave it. It's not ready to be rewritten. I'm taking it off the schedule. It will not plague me any more. I'm moving house, sorting out new jobs and generally there's a whole lot of new shit happening.

So I'm starting a new book. This one's been rolling in my head for just under three years now. I'm hoping to have submission chapters ready by the end of the summer (not that summer's actually begun yet). Like much else that's going on in my life, this is pretty exciting. I figure if I shop two sets of submission chapters I'm twice as likely to get picked up.

So that's a two-in-a-million chance then...

in a week

I've not gone running in almost a week. I drift between pangs of guilt and shrugs of not giving a shit. The two are spread out evenly, the pangs and the shrugs. I figure that's pretty healthy - a good balance always is.

While not running I've done other things.

I've noticed a lost hubcap. I don't know when I lost it, and I'm pretty sure I'll never find it again. I don't miss it. In fact, I'm tempted to get rid of its two remaining brethren. They're tattered and make an awful racket when the windows are rolled down. Perhaps if I wait long enough they'll all be gone.

I've been to a funeral. I got there late. I stood outside the door and listened for awhile to the muffled eulogy before entering with the other late-comers.

I've held back tears and helped dry others'.

I've given a lot of hugs.

I've received a few myself.

I've driven a lot, and as such have not drunk enough.

I've not worked on the book. This also provokes pangs and shrugs, though with less balance. There are far more pangs than shrugs on this one. I figure that's pretty healthy too.

I've contemplated life, death and the universe a great deal and know no more about any of them.

I've watched the first series of House on DVD, and wondered whether I was funnier when I was grumpier.

I've chose sleep over exercise, friends over sleep and orange juice over beer.

The latter might have been a mistake.

the burnt ends

It's not a shorts day. In the battle between clean laundry and weather-friendly clothes, the latter lost. I'm cold, but I'm not smelly. That must count for something.

It's not a flip-flop day either, but in for a penny...

--------------------------------------------------

My father jokes that his dowry was a poodle.

She was black, quite small and deeply devoted to my mother. This put us at odds for the first 5 1/2 years of my life. Tilly and I competed for mom's affection and attention. More often than not, she won. To be fair, she deserved to - I was petulant and spoiled, while she was loyal, loving and probably smelled better than I did. Tilly was a smart dog, and knew if I hugged my mother in her presence it was in part to get a jealous growl from her. She snapped at me but never bit me.

I hated her. She resented me.

Just before my sixth birthday, we arrived at some sort of truce. I stopped baiting her and she stopped snapping. She let me hug my mother. After a month or so she let me pet her. It was civil. I finally understood her place and she begrudgingly allowed me mine. She rested her head on my leg once or twice.

At the end of the summer the family went to the Cape to visit friends. For the first time, Tilly slept in my room. One night, late, I woke to her wheezing on the floor. She rasped, and felt hot to touch. I woke my folks.

The vet put her to sleep that night.

I've not thought of her in awhile.

quack.

I want one of these...

There's much else going on, but for the moment that will do.

this morning

There's only birdsong.

The fridge is silent. There's no swish of the washing machine, no rumble of the dishwasher. No gentle thump as the water pump and boiler set to their morning work.

Just the birds, and the tumult of thought, the receding tide of last night's dreams.

The bloody power's out.

I swear a lot and wipe the sleep from my eyes.

The power returns, but not the hot water.

I swear some more.

just so you know

That if ever you've finished your chips/crisps/pita/other-some-such-dipping-victual before you've finished your hummus/guacamole/salsa/other-some-such-dip, it is important to use your fingers to scrape that last tasty bit out of the bowl/ramekin/other-some-such-dipping-vessel.

In fact, it's imperative.

Anyone who tells you different is in league with The Man.

the relativity of time

June has flown by in a gallimaufry of torrential rain, ubiquitous fog and fleeting sunshine. There was quite a bit of damp, cold and wet involved as well. And it's not quite over yet. Who knows what the next three days of the month have to offer?

Not I.

I do know that there are a stack of unpayable bills sitting to the left of me. To my right is a cup of lapsang souchong. There are other things scattered about as well, but they don't grab my attention as much.

Except one thing. There's a large, unopened bottle of ale on my desk. Sometimes I look up from the screen and ponder it. The lapsong makes me smile, but not as much as the bottle of ale.

Where has June gone?

too literary...

Tara, the walking rug that keeps me company while I write, is a curious beast. Daschunds tend to be, and long-haired daschunds moreso. I've known a few in my day.

Perhaps they know, deep down, that they look kind of silly. Elongated, sausage-like and earnest. Tara is a lovely dog but ridiculous. Her hair drags grass-cuttings, twigs and all sorts of detritus through the house. She has a beard, snauser-like. Sometimes she feigns back pain to convince Christina to lift her onto the couch, sometimes she deftly leaps to the couch herself, when she thinks that no one's looking. When she's excited to see you, she'll rise to her hind feet, back pain forgotten, and try to give you a hug.

It's endearing. It's also laughable and absurd.

I find myself making fun of Tara. Not in a hurtful way. In a soft voice, usually while scratching her belly or behind her ears. I make fun of her beard, the way her butt shakes when she walks, how badly she smells. The fact that she's a bit thick. I push her away when she tries to lick me.

As long as it's with a gentle voice and looking her straight in the eyes, her feelings don't get hurt. She still tries to lick me and we get along just fine. I reconcile my affection for her with my incredulity at her silliness.

I've been a bit nicer today. More scratches behind the ear and fewer soft-spoken jibes. Her silly presence is welcome.

An email arrived this morning. It was complimentary and vague, written softly. It spoke of how they enjoyed my chapters (but never what they enjoyed about them). It ended the soft compliments with the regret that it was 'too literary' for their agency.

I suppose it's better than being 'too rubbish' or 'too vacuous'.

I could use a hug right now. No words or consolation, just a long, quiet hug.
Instead I'll scratch the belly and behind the ears of a smelly long-haired daschund who I won't even let give me a kiss.