On Monday we moved out of the – very warm – flat we’d rented for the winter and into our – very cold – metal box up on the hillside. At 6am on Tuesday it was 1°C INSIDE.
A few days later, a few degrees warmer. We have hats, thick socks, three duvets and a cat to keep us warm at night. I am resigned to having only a temporary space at the table and a makeshift resting place for my notebooks (three boxes covered with fabric). I have an old school desk but need a chair the right height to use it. I look out onto a hazel tree strung with bird feeders in the foreground and a view of the hills through a gap in the hedge. Like the birds, like everyone, I am waiting for spring.
So. No, I’m not well but yes I am reading (Geoff Dyer’s The Colour of Memory – very good, and entertaining) and yes I am writing again. Finished and subbed a short piece this week after reading Oliver Burkeman’s piece in the Guardian last weekend (Helsinki Bus Station theory). And yes, despite having zero energy I will stay on the bus, I will stay on the fucking bus, just for the ride. *No, I wasn’t a girl guide.
This track’s hounding me too. ‘I got love in my tummy and a tiny little pain/And a 10 ton catastrophe on a 60 pound chain’. Brilliant.