annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary

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A bit sweary, soz

1. I took the collage to hang in the cafe on Saturday. Yeah, Saturday. Lunchtime as well. Who knew a cafe would be busy on a weekend lunchtime? Heaving, it was. Packed solid. They were very nice, showed me a place it will be safe till Monday morning, when it's all quiet there. Sigh.


2. Lunch with Son yesterday. Second consecutive repulsive meal. It started raining soon after we'd left the car and all the good eating places filled up so we ended up in this seedy cafe, with one of those punning names that you know mean trouble - fuck the name, people, apply your thought to the food. We both chose jacket potatoes with tuna, thinking that was bombproof, but I tell you, it isn't. The potato had been taken out of the skin and mashed up with nasty margarine, no salt or pepper, then bunged back. The tuna had been smashed into submission - not a hint of bite and fuck knows what had been mixed into that. Very nasty. So there goes my idea of me being a lady who lunches. Two in a row, inedible.


3. Son is fucking awesome though. I'm not going to write about it here, because it's his shit not mine, but he is the bloody bees knees, I tell you.


4. I'm in a state about the tribunal. I'm all knotted up, holding on. Almost there. When it's over I want to try and write better. Not now though. Now I'm doing well to have opened the page and blethered on about nothing much at all.


5. I read Sea Fever to ED, while we were on the pier in the wild wind, with seagulls swirling and squawking all around us and I've just read it again, out loud and made a video but I'm fucked if I can get it off my phone. I wanted to send it to P, who is our pirate captain, lying so ill in her bed, but it is not to be. Not tonight anyway. Here it is:
   
   
   

   Sea Fever

   
   
   
   
   
   

   BY JOHN MASEFIELD

   
   
   
   
   
   

   
   

   
   

   I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

   
   

   And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;

   
   

   And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

   
   

   And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

   
   

   
   

   I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

   
   

   Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

   
   

   And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

   
   

   And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

   
   

   
   

   I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

   
   

   To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;

   
   

   And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

   
   

   And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

   
   

   
   

   
   

Sweet dreams xxx

12:25 a.m. - 29.01.18

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