How on earth have I written nothing in the blog for five days? You might think – given the cavernous period of “missing time” that I would have breathless adventures and escapades to impart – important and insightful commentary on life, the universe and eveything – and you would be wrong.
I have very little of earth shattering importance to impart – not that I’m going to let that stop me. Having nothing to say, and saying it, seems to be something of a required skill when it comes to writing a blog.
I need to channel Norah Ephron’s blogging screed – about the words pouring forth only needing to make any sense for about as long as it takes for me to write them down, and for you to read them.
I somewhat serendipitously crossed paths with an old friend from the other side of the world this week. When asked how I was doing, I said it felt like I had been submerged for some time. I’m not quite sure what I really meant – perhaps imprisoned within a prison of my own making – on the inside, looking out at the rest of the world getting on with getting on.
I’m probably making no sense at all.
(a few moments pass while I walk to the kitchen and procure a glass of something nice to drink)
I now have a very tall glass of cider propped next to the laptop. I suppose a little scene setting might be an idea.
I’m sitting in the living room, at the dining table. Some ridiculous detective show is playing on the television. My other half is doing a gigantic jigsaw I bought her earlier. It only just fits on the coffee table. We have a large coffee table.
She has a habit of completing jigsaws in one evening. This one will put an end to that.
That cats are wandering around in the kitchen, waiting for trouble to kick off. One of them (the big fat ginger one that used all his lives up some time ago) is testing the edible qualities of anything he can find on the floor. His partner in crime – the black rescue cat – has no qualms about opening the food bin – his personal larder – filled with revolting yet apparently delicious opportunity.
I just got sucked into the idiotic detective show for the last few minutes. This is why I don’t watch television any more. Or very rarely. I know how easily distracted I am. Or rather, how easily diverted.
We visited my in-laws today – the first time I have visited in some time. It was nice. Nice to escape. I wondered into town while I was there – their town – filled with inumerable shops that our town doesn’t have. I didn’t need to get anything, and somehow found myself in quite the most wonderful book-shop I’ve visited in some time.
It was a chain book-shop – a well known chain – but also kind of wonderful. I love book-shops. I love books. Always have, always will. I ended up buying a book about a little bookshop in Tokyo – “Days at the Morisaki Bookshop”. I picked it up because the cover called out to me – then before I knew it I was paying for it. It’s funny how that happens. The girl at the counter remarked “oh, this is such a wonderful book!”.
Now to find time to read it.
Did you know there’s a name for the practice of buying books and not getting around to reading them? There is. Bibliophagy.
I shall add the book to the front of the queue of unread books – no doubt annoying the books that have been patienty waiting in line enormously. Because of course books have characters and personalities. Can you even imagine the arguments on the bookshelves when we all go to bed?