Meditations in an emergency
Jul. 29th, 2006 08:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zoetropeButterflies
They’re one of the few other creatures - I have come, in the past few days, to realise - that it’s not very objectionable to watch mate. I once saw a rooster try to take a hen, wandering vaguely by after a stray speck of grain, in a rough manner, from behind. Let me tell you, it’s not a sight I’d wish on anyone.
Butterflies, however, are another matter. They’ve been flitting in and out of hedgerows as I’ve explored the countryside in the past few weeks, lingering on the Buddleia bushes of great country houses and darting into my path - just to scare me, I’m sure - and a few times I’ve seen them mating, dancing around each other in the air, occasionally kissing wings and pulling apart, and it’s a sight that actually hasn’t repulsed me. Don’t get me wrong, it hasn’t turned me on either (thank goodness), but it seems a very delicate restrained way to make love, and the Victorian lady in me approves.
Psmith
My I-Pod died. And then was resurrected! With thanks to the glory that is Anapod. Since its reincarnation, I have rechristened it Psmith. If you ask me to explain this, all I shall say is:
"I asked you to wear a pink chrysanthemum. So I could recognize you, you know."
"I am wearing a pink chrysanthemum. I should have imagined that that was a fact that the most casual observer could hardly have overlooked."
"That thing?" The Hon. Freddie Threepwood gazed disparagingly at the floral decoration in Psmith's buttonhole. "I thought it was some kind of cabbage. I meant one of those little what-d'you-may-call-its that people wear in their button-holes."
"Carnation, possibly?"
"Carnation! That's right."
Psmith removed the chrysanthemum and dropped it behind the chair. He looked at his companion reproachfully.
"If you had studied botany at school, comrade," he said "much misery might have been averted. I cannot begin to tell you the spiritual agony I suffered, trailing through the metropolis behind that shrub."
Side-effects
I feel like the past few months have taken me apart, brick-by-brick, and put me back together again differently. I don’t feel the same person, I feel cleaner and fresher and also slightly more sombre somehow and happier, but that might just be the sunshine and Shropshire countryside.
Every day I wake up and go to the gym, exercise for a while, shower and exfoliate, and then if the weather is nice I might go and sit by the outdoor pool. Then I meet my Grandmother for lunch and do the Times crossword, and afterwards go with her to some local country house and wander in the rose garden. After our very important mid-afternoon ice cream, I come home, and stitch (in medias res) and listen to Wodehouse or the Half-Blood Prince on audio book, and then spend the evening discussing Big Brother (I know, awful) with my Mum. We’re both addicted. Rather, I should say she’s a dealer and got me hooked, the cow.
Either way, I simply do a lot more now. I’m less content to sit around being introspective, I actually prefer to be out and about - after a quarter of a century I’m changing my habits, apparently. I spend little time online - sorry to all my sadly-neglected LJ friends - and more time with family, outside in the fresh air. All sickeningly healthy, actually. Don’t worry, it won’t last long.
Signing off for now. I hope you’re all well. I shall leave you with this thought:
Shropshire.
They’re one of the few other creatures - I have come, in the past few days, to realise - that it’s not very objectionable to watch mate. I once saw a rooster try to take a hen, wandering vaguely by after a stray speck of grain, in a rough manner, from behind. Let me tell you, it’s not a sight I’d wish on anyone.
Butterflies, however, are another matter. They’ve been flitting in and out of hedgerows as I’ve explored the countryside in the past few weeks, lingering on the Buddleia bushes of great country houses and darting into my path - just to scare me, I’m sure - and a few times I’ve seen them mating, dancing around each other in the air, occasionally kissing wings and pulling apart, and it’s a sight that actually hasn’t repulsed me. Don’t get me wrong, it hasn’t turned me on either (thank goodness), but it seems a very delicate restrained way to make love, and the Victorian lady in me approves.
Psmith
My I-Pod died. And then was resurrected! With thanks to the glory that is Anapod. Since its reincarnation, I have rechristened it Psmith. If you ask me to explain this, all I shall say is:
"I asked you to wear a pink chrysanthemum. So I could recognize you, you know."
"I am wearing a pink chrysanthemum. I should have imagined that that was a fact that the most casual observer could hardly have overlooked."
"That thing?" The Hon. Freddie Threepwood gazed disparagingly at the floral decoration in Psmith's buttonhole. "I thought it was some kind of cabbage. I meant one of those little what-d'you-may-call-its that people wear in their button-holes."
"Carnation, possibly?"
"Carnation! That's right."
Psmith removed the chrysanthemum and dropped it behind the chair. He looked at his companion reproachfully.
"If you had studied botany at school, comrade," he said "much misery might have been averted. I cannot begin to tell you the spiritual agony I suffered, trailing through the metropolis behind that shrub."
Side-effects
I feel like the past few months have taken me apart, brick-by-brick, and put me back together again differently. I don’t feel the same person, I feel cleaner and fresher and also slightly more sombre somehow and happier, but that might just be the sunshine and Shropshire countryside.
Every day I wake up and go to the gym, exercise for a while, shower and exfoliate, and then if the weather is nice I might go and sit by the outdoor pool. Then I meet my Grandmother for lunch and do the Times crossword, and afterwards go with her to some local country house and wander in the rose garden. After our very important mid-afternoon ice cream, I come home, and stitch (in medias res) and listen to Wodehouse or the Half-Blood Prince on audio book, and then spend the evening discussing Big Brother (I know, awful) with my Mum. We’re both addicted. Rather, I should say she’s a dealer and got me hooked, the cow.
Either way, I simply do a lot more now. I’m less content to sit around being introspective, I actually prefer to be out and about - after a quarter of a century I’m changing my habits, apparently. I spend little time online - sorry to all my sadly-neglected LJ friends - and more time with family, outside in the fresh air. All sickeningly healthy, actually. Don’t worry, it won’t last long.
Signing off for now. I hope you’re all well. I shall leave you with this thought:
Shropshire.
