Life in the middle

Love your work darling.

I like the cut of Dan The Man's jib. Particularly when he writes like this about summer, and growing up, and stuff.

Hello again.

On the 21st November 2006 I lost my ipod.

Today I found it - it was sitting in the pocket of a suit jacket all along. That grey one that I had made in Thailand and don't wear that often, that was the culprit - the offending garment. I feel a bit funny having made such a fuss about it now, but it is nice to have it back. So I've got two ipods now. I'm a two ipod man. I'm ipoded up. I'm packing pod. I'm not without ipod.

It's a crazy feeling.

Books. More books. Then some more books.

I like reading, always have. But the older I get the more books I own, which is fine - they're a good thing. But it does mean that almost everywhere you go in our flat there are books.

In the cabinet thing in the lounge.

In the bottom of the cabinet thing, where we keep wrapping paper.

And on the other side, where we keep some rather odd goggles.

On top of the weird cabinet thing.

Behind the sofa.

Behind the chair that no one ever sits in.

Next to my side of the bed.

And even on the floor next to my side of the bed.

There are more, but I can't be bothered to take pictures of them. In fact the only place where I couldn't see a book was the hallway, but then that's the place for my amazing shoe and rucksack collection, and that's a whole other post.

A year ago.

One of the good things about having a blog is that you can look back at what you were doing at the same time, a year previous. The picture above is from the post I wrote a year ago today. I was writing about running. It feels like a very different me. I feel a bit more reigned in these days, a little less wild, or maybe just a little less fit.

One thing that is clear to me as I read back through old posts is that I've loved writing this blog. I know it's no work of art, and mostly silly stuff, but I've still enjoyed writing it. It makes me a little sad that I don't have the time, or maybe the heart for it, that I once had. But who knows, maybe I'll rediscover my view on the world again, a little focus on the small things that I like. At the moment I feel a little dulled, and a little disengaged, and a little out of focus. But, then again, maybe I won't. And maybe that was that - that was blogging. And all I had to say was that it's better to run with your heart, than your legs. If so, then fine, that'll do.

Anyway, it's Bank Holiday. So that means I try and go shopping - travel into Town, only to find that all the shops are shut. It's what I do.

Treading water.

It's been a busy week. No time for anything. No blogging. No knitting. No running. No French lessons. No kayaking. No break dancing. No church. There's always next week, I suppose.

Amen, or something.

"I'm just paying my rent every day"

There was a very interesting interview with Jack Vettriano on TV this morning. Vettriano is often dismissed by the critics as lacking true artistic content, and rarely has his work been shown in the large national galleries. And yet he is one of the most commercially successful living artists - selling his work for substantial six figure sums, and making even more from reproductions. In the interview he was asked whether he thought he was underrated by the 'establishment', and deserving of more respect. His answer was a fascinating one. In it he cited the Leonard Cohen song 'Tower Of Song', in which Cohen hints at his own perception of his position in the pantheon of the great songwriters;

"I said to Hank Williams: how lonely does it get?

Hank Williams hasn't answered yet

But I hear him coughing all night long

A hundred floors above me

In the tower of song."

Vettriano said he felt the same way - that he should be considered, if only 'a hundred floors' below the very greatest of the great. And that's true for most of us isn't it? We are far from the top, much farther than Vettriano or Cohen, looking up, and wondering how lonely it gets.

That's life in the middle.

Dead duck(s).

Very occasionally there is nothing that will satisfy a hunger other than a duck, a dead duck. Last night was one of those occasions. A small group of gentlemen gathered in a Chinese restaurant, totally focused on nothing more than duck. It was ordered, killed, cooked, delivered, and eaten.

Not quite satisfied with one, we also ordered a cheeky half, just to finish things off correctly. It was a single minded meal, borne out of necessity and circumstance, but completed with grace.

Still waiting.

Moved to a green chair, and stared at the wall.

Waiting game.

Sometimes you have to wait. Find somewhere comfortable, settle in, and wait. I like to look miserable while doing it, but that's not compulsory.

Once more we go through the Gwen eye...

Once more via Gwen.

I think this time we are watching focus groups, and eating.