under another sun

The first day that Lorraine and I spent on our own, and we really enjoyed walking from Moulin Huet to Jerbourg. Sitting on benches here and there just to listen to the birds singing on the wooded parts of the cliffs. Felt very relaxed today. At Jerbourg after looking down at the foghorn in its little white building, blasting out its mournful note, which echoed off the other islands, we had some coffee in the hotel there, and then caught the bus into town. Went a bit mad and bought myself a new Guernsey jumper, a traditional navy blue one. Lorraine went into East, which is closing down, and I went to the Guernsey Press Shop, where I was pleasantly surprised to see a couple of Guernsey Doubles still clinging on by their fingernails. Wandered over to East and was instructed by the manager to go downstairs, to find Lorraine, who was busy in the changing rooms, and came away with a load of bargains. Caught a bus back home, while we waited I peered into some of the parked buses to see if...

More moaning than you can shake a stick at Friday night. Despite rattling with painkillers, my head is thumping. Lorraine is at her house with her girly mates. Time, therefore, for a moan. Traditionally Summer is the season for things to be obnoxious, so a week of summer suck was overdue. So to the quack this morning. Shambled with my hiking stick, being given a wide berth in the street. Took me three times as long to walk there as usual. Turns out the ankle business which has kept me skewered by increasingly insufferable pain for the last three days and nights may be gout. Separated at birth: me and sodding Henry VIII. It is so painful that it keeps me awake, and also too painful to sit on a normal chair. And if the gout business didn't suck enough, my blood pressure was a bit high again. The nice locum has organised a shed load of tests for me next week. If I freakishly manage to live that long. Back home to discover the client thinks my copy (designed to reassure people about a ...

The politics of angels Bought the unspeakable Daily Mail this morning, to check a small press ad I'd written in it about Brittany. Some monkey had broken the headline overnight, however, by adding an unneccesary word. Only a small job, but as a writer it galls. Still feeling very sluggish and enervated but slogging steadily to the end of Skelton Yawngrave, and my mind buzzing with how to approach the Guernsey project. My brooding only broken by a crocodile of children walking past in the Twitten, and as I glanced out of my study window I saw Klaudia was one of them. Made me feel sentimental to see my Goddaughter walk past apparently so carefree, along with lots of other five-year-olds holding hands. Lorraine told me today that she has asked some teachers and children to read Skelton which is fab. She is a great boon. Popped up the road to Anna and Anton's house to see Christian and Jane, and meet their new baby Ava who has an endearingly imperious expression, and is the spit o...

Siamese fighting fish A spot of freelance topical fish consultancy today: the result was that Beth bought a gorgeous scarlet male Siamese fighting fish and three tiny neons for her new aquarium. As well as the fish, Beth also scored an unendorsed plastic SpongeBob SquarePants snail called Gary. Once these were installed, Lorraine and I finished off painting her bathroom and toilet. And Lorraine drove me home, where I had a quiet night, chatting to Mum Mase and Toby, and thinking about work. I wrote the following poem some time ago about being trapped by boredom, and the petty cruelties boredom can lead to. Boredom, as I have mentioned before, is an emotion I rarely experience. However the work I have been doing over the last month or so has, uniquely, made me feel trapped in my study. Siamese fighting fish bored stupid in my box room, I taunt the fighter in its tank. Betta splendens , a scarlet flag unfurling from Java fern; a murderous Narcissus who falls madly for my mirror. in the w...

Making visible, Siamese fighters, and rhubarb Off today up to the smoke to my old agency, for what proved to be a short and sweet briefing. As usual felt a little odd to walk through the graveyard toward the office. But nice to chat to the Gnome and a few other chums. Enjoyed the train ride, as it travelled by lots of flooded fields after heavy rain. Reading Paul Klee's diaries at the moment, and it is inspiring me. One of the things he said I really like, which is in his Credo , and not in the diaries is that "Art does not reproduce the visible; rather, it makes visible." I'd like to think the best of my poems does this too. Have been working on a poem about Siamese fighting fish over the last couple of days. Yet again it makes me wonder how I wrote anything without the Internet. Having kept these fish in the past, I was trying to confirm that they flared their gill covers when threatened. But all you have to do is biff onto You Tube and there you have several films ...