annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary


Day 51


That's me under the flyover this afternoon, by the river. Trying to look a bit urban, being sick of the rural, the maritime, the whatever the fuck the adjective is for village. I miss my city. I mean, I wouldn't go there - I haven't, as I'm keeping safe. I'll go on Sunday to drop off daughter's birthday presents and cake, putting them on the doorstep, ringing the bell and standing back on the pavement. Probably crying.

I've been wondering, by the by, why people use such extravagantly flattering profile pictures. When you get to meet them, or see them in a zoom workshop where their face is mobile and real - well, it's not exactly disappointment, because who gives a fuck, but perhaps surprise - oh, you have several chins - and a focus on the features the person wanted to hide, which probably wouldn't have been noticed if there'd been no attempted cover-up. I know several people whose profile pictures are verging on fictional and I find it odd. That's all. Mind you, I look a lot worse than the photo above, so maybe I should shut the fuck up. Much more wrinkly, bloodshot of eye, knackered looking.

Today I woke up feeling crap, dragged myself to a three-way art session with two of my pals from the recovery centre and after a bit of gentle chat and fannying about with paper and glue, I felt much more kindly disposed towards the world.


This is where I'm at with the things - god knows what they are - they're not as disastrous as I feared yesterday and I've still to decorate and varnish them, but they aren't what I envisaged. What I envisaged required more skill, experience and time - if I'd started three weeks ago and been prepared to chuck them and begin again...

Writing workshop, all about windows this week. The first piece:

Today from my window I can see the wildlife hedge, which is pleasing - I find I am surprised to be pleased by it, but I am. It was a bundle of mixed, bare-rooted twigs a few years ago and now it almost blocks out the ugly fence. On this spring day, after long-awaited rain, it's fresh and perky, the hawthorn full of buds, the dog rose sending whippy shoots to dance in the wind. I can't see any birds but I can hear them chattering away, hidden in the hedge, loving it from the tone of their song. A magpie just flew in to land on next door's shed roof.  I only seem to see single magpies these days - one for sorrow - but what do I expect - these are not joyous days. The sudden surge in growth of the hedge reassures me, somehow. We might be struggling and we might have done huge damage to the planet, but nature is strong and not over yet - there's brambles and bindweed on standby to cover everything with vibrant, lush green

The second piece was in response to some pictures she put up on screen, of views through windows - they were all far too small for me to see much but I wrote this anyway:
I'd only had one cigarette since the one I'd stubbed underfoot at the entrance to Gatwick airport, a lifetime ago. Hours of hanging around, suitcases everywhere, no exterior light, tapping my feet, anxious on the flight, knees under chin, rolling a few for later, another airport, quickly to the station and onto a train, all indoors, no smoking, no smoking, no smoking, Jeez, didn't they get it? Finally spat out into pouring rain. Stop! I put my foot down. I'm not getting into that taxi till I've had a smoke. Under an awning, him muttering crossly, me ready to explode, inhaling deeply, one fag was not enough. The hotel, old, big furniture, dark hallways, a room full of beds and wardrobes and another bloody no smoking sign. Sod that. Open the window, sit on the ledge. Light up, calm down. Drink in the nicotine, drink in the view. Florence! I'm in Florence! I can see the Duomo  - oh man, the rooftops, the cobbles, Vespas sputtering, Italian words, sing-song, beautiful in the air, the rain, the light, this is me, here, in this room with this view.

As well as that I walked for miles in the windy wind. I reminded people about the videos for Daughter - they have good hearts but shocking memories - the stragglers were all the stoners, obvs - but in the end there are 39 different video messages to my girl, so I predict a river of tears. Fabulous. So grateful. And I did a yoga nidra and watched the rest of Season 2 of After Life which I didn't much like though I kept going anyway.

I know I have a few readers who are neither British or from the US (waves at Simeons-twin,  swordfern, u-saved-me, and Hvitveis) and how fucking lucky they are to have neither of our governments in charge of their countries at this time. These fuckers will - never mind will - they are letting citizens die rather than tell the truth, take a bit of action, admit they got it wrong. Both Trump and Johnson do the same thing - brazenly lie about it all being a success when the figures tell another story, and the media do not fucking challenge them. Shameful, just shameful.

Good night xxx

1:03 a.m. - 02.05.20


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