Introducing the misreading librarian and the divine power of raspberries
This evening, Barton seems tranquil, but then again, I have been in the big city for the past few days, maybe there's a whole lot of lurid licentiousness - or simple devilish deeds - going on behind closed doors. Or, maybe everyone's watching Last of the Summer Wine.
Friday was an interesting day. Had to land at Emma's house for a meeting with a couple of 'artists' about a piece of work that will happen later in the year. Managed to stay patient with the artists - aided by a fine lunch - such that I didn't turn towards berating them for being blindly privileged or unable to articulate whatever the f*** was behind their dreamy 'creativity' (one of the three brands that gets churned out for every third funder). It turned out to be the case that the artists talked sense and - I am most glad to share - entirely absented themselves from my 'artist' stereotype. It was also good to step into Emma's house without it feeling like the set of a David Lynch film. Just before my departure I was invited to return to said house the following evening. Before any enquiry was made, I was told that Ed would be away with Alex for the weekend. I agreed to return for tea and chat.
Saturday day-time, I was a messy work blur at the university library. The librarians therein seem to fall into three 'types':- (i) old bird disillusioned that in the modern era libraries have little to do with bookish learning, or widening interests or intellect, (ii) middle-aged bird who gladly believes - because 1-in-4 of her library's users is a young male who fixes her with wanting eyes - that she must be a "mature stunner" (thus she tries to encourage them with ever-shorter skirts, and ever-oranger make-up) - sad thing is that she is mistaken - in fact, 1-in-4 of her library's users would prong anything that breathed... once upon a long ago, and (iii) young bird who is treating her part-time library employment as a little earner whilst she decides what she wants to do with her life - which is a decision that has to be made before she turns into (ii).
Saturday evening at Emma's was decent enough. I landed with a gift of a bowl of raspberries that had lain in the freezer of pal Gay Franglais (with whom I'd been staying). She seemed thrilled beyond reason. I accepted some hot tea, and a far-too-hard ginger biscuit. We chatted idly on the subjects of personal histories, Celebrity Big Brother, and our mutual chum Siobhan (with whom I'd had a brief interlude of interluding). It seems that Ms Emma and I will be required to take a two-day trip to a city in the far north at the end of this month - paid-for research. Should be fun. I may call on the Family Wexford who live nearby.
And today I have walked - a not-so-gentle 9-miler with a handsome pub lunch somewhere in the middle. Was with pal Catherine - who seemed to be on good form - part-related to "feeling healthy" (10%), and part-related (my inference) to talk of and texting with a "new admirer" (90%). I suspect that new admirer was not unrelated to the querying re one-night stands last week.
And now, as the local flock jump into their 4x4's following another Sunday evening of well-meaningness, I hear a bath-tub calling my name. It is a most agreeable bath-tub - the scene of some of my least-foolish thinking, a zone of peace and wonder, a haven of pro-social hope. Praise bubble-bath. Good evening.
Friday was an interesting day. Had to land at Emma's house for a meeting with a couple of 'artists' about a piece of work that will happen later in the year. Managed to stay patient with the artists - aided by a fine lunch - such that I didn't turn towards berating them for being blindly privileged or unable to articulate whatever the f*** was behind their dreamy 'creativity' (one of the three brands that gets churned out for every third funder). It turned out to be the case that the artists talked sense and - I am most glad to share - entirely absented themselves from my 'artist' stereotype. It was also good to step into Emma's house without it feeling like the set of a David Lynch film. Just before my departure I was invited to return to said house the following evening. Before any enquiry was made, I was told that Ed would be away with Alex for the weekend. I agreed to return for tea and chat.
Saturday day-time, I was a messy work blur at the university library. The librarians therein seem to fall into three 'types':- (i) old bird disillusioned that in the modern era libraries have little to do with bookish learning, or widening interests or intellect, (ii) middle-aged bird who gladly believes - because 1-in-4 of her library's users is a young male who fixes her with wanting eyes - that she must be a "mature stunner" (thus she tries to encourage them with ever-shorter skirts, and ever-oranger make-up) - sad thing is that she is mistaken - in fact, 1-in-4 of her library's users would prong anything that breathed... once upon a long ago, and (iii) young bird who is treating her part-time library employment as a little earner whilst she decides what she wants to do with her life - which is a decision that has to be made before she turns into (ii).
Saturday evening at Emma's was decent enough. I landed with a gift of a bowl of raspberries that had lain in the freezer of pal Gay Franglais (with whom I'd been staying). She seemed thrilled beyond reason. I accepted some hot tea, and a far-too-hard ginger biscuit. We chatted idly on the subjects of personal histories, Celebrity Big Brother, and our mutual chum Siobhan (with whom I'd had a brief interlude of interluding). It seems that Ms Emma and I will be required to take a two-day trip to a city in the far north at the end of this month - paid-for research. Should be fun. I may call on the Family Wexford who live nearby.
And today I have walked - a not-so-gentle 9-miler with a handsome pub lunch somewhere in the middle. Was with pal Catherine - who seemed to be on good form - part-related to "feeling healthy" (10%), and part-related (my inference) to talk of and texting with a "new admirer" (90%). I suspect that new admirer was not unrelated to the querying re one-night stands last week.
And now, as the local flock jump into their 4x4's following another Sunday evening of well-meaningness, I hear a bath-tub calling my name. It is a most agreeable bath-tub - the scene of some of my least-foolish thinking, a zone of peace and wonder, a haven of pro-social hope. Praise bubble-bath. Good evening.
posted by Shane @ 8:15 pm
<< Home