...but not a lot to say. My head's empty. I’m back at work on Monday after a week off, and reluctant as I am to start teaching writing and reading skills all over again, I have to admit that I am crap at leisure and need external motivation if I am to avoid my tendency to slump into inertia, solipsism and gloom.
‘You sound proper cheesed off again,’ my mother said accusingly, over the phone.
Since I had at that point only managed to utter the word ‘hello?’ I felt a bit of strop coming on, but thank God I managed to stifle it, because she was ringing to inform me she’d just put a thousand pounds into my bank account.
Sod all has happened these past few weeks, which is why the posts are thin. A while ago the bloody bed collapsed underneath me. Fortunately, it was at seven in the morning while I was about to get started on my second cafetiere of thick black coffee, and not three in the morning while I was out cold. Cost me twenty quid to have the council cart it away. I discovered that a replacement, guaranteed not to collapse at least until your great-grandchildren are bouncing on it, could set you back a good thousand pounds, and so have decided to do without. Instead, I put the mattress on the living room floor and now I need some bead curtains, a narghilé or two, and a dusky, doe-eyed boy (or two) to complete the beds-i'-the-east effect it's suggesting I exploit.
The ex-bedroom is now a study, or would be if I actually studied in it, instead of arguing with evangelical Christers on YouTube. Oh, I dunno. Maybe Jesus really is knocking at the door of my heart rart now - these people do try so hard to convince me. I seem to attract them in the same unfailing way I attracted con-artists in Greece, who'd accost me in the streets of Athens and claim to have been robbed by Albanians; could I therefore lend them 50,000 drachmas as they had to be in Larissa by nightfall? They'd be sure to send it on to me. Nothing Jesus people say makes sense, either:
'Really, I believe my own father (who I was EXTREMELY close to and died when I was 13) went to Hell. I say this because I know what his lifestyle was like, and I know he claimed to know God but did many things contrary to his confession. Does it make me hate God that my father is in Hell? Does it make me think it's unfair? [It fucking well ought to, darling.] Oddly enough, no. It is sad, and if I wanted to dwell on it, I could eventually work myself into distress. [Keep trying!] But I know that God is God, and I know that all His works are in righteousness.'Why do I bloody bother? Frankly I don't know, other than that the whole evangelical trip retains its power to infuriate me thirty-five years after I left it.
That's that, for the time being. The coming five-week course may bring a bit of drama and some entertaining mangling of the English tongue, but otherwise I shall probably take a break from blogging.
Don't go away.