I know why the gouty bloke scowls
Foot pain has enjoyed something of a renaissance, hobbled to the doctor's this morning and collected my prescription of the Catch 22 pills, very effective apparently, but I can only take them after this bout, the most persistent one I've experienced, is over. Bah to it.
As far as productivity is concerned, a wasted day. Hard to concentrate. I learned that I came nowhere in a poetry competition. Sleeping a good deal, but also finished my audiobook of Maya Angelou's I know why the caged bird sings. It was read by Maya Angelou herself and skillfully presented episodes from her life as emblems of the African American experience. I can see why she is held in such high regard.
Angelou was sexually abused as a child and spent the next few years barely able to speak. It made me remember a little girl in my own class at junior school called Stephanie who was almost mute, perhaps just with shyness, or just the trauma of finding herself in Neasden after being born in Jamaica. Sometimes playing with her friends you might catch her speaking in a tiny voice. Contrary to the received wisdom of the cruelty of children, I seem to remember the other kids trying to encourage her on the rare occasions she was heard to whisper.
Lorraine home late this afternoon, but working hard and waiting for term to end.
At nine Anton came to the nearby Circus Circus full of news. He won an award at work, had an exciting job offer, and met up with an old friend he called The American Girl, here on holiday, who he had not seen for about 25 years. Interesting how people can reappear in our personal skies like returning comets. Good to see him. It was almost eleven as we left the pub, and Anton hailed a cab just outside which refused to stop probably as my Dickensian shamble was mistaken for drunkenness. Ironic on a beerless night. I know why the gouty bloke scowls.
As far as productivity is concerned, a wasted day. Hard to concentrate. I learned that I came nowhere in a poetry competition. Sleeping a good deal, but also finished my audiobook of Maya Angelou's I know why the caged bird sings. It was read by Maya Angelou herself and skillfully presented episodes from her life as emblems of the African American experience. I can see why she is held in such high regard.
Angelou was sexually abused as a child and spent the next few years barely able to speak. It made me remember a little girl in my own class at junior school called Stephanie who was almost mute, perhaps just with shyness, or just the trauma of finding herself in Neasden after being born in Jamaica. Sometimes playing with her friends you might catch her speaking in a tiny voice. Contrary to the received wisdom of the cruelty of children, I seem to remember the other kids trying to encourage her on the rare occasions she was heard to whisper.
Lorraine home late this afternoon, but working hard and waiting for term to end.
At nine Anton came to the nearby Circus Circus full of news. He won an award at work, had an exciting job offer, and met up with an old friend he called The American Girl, here on holiday, who he had not seen for about 25 years. Interesting how people can reappear in our personal skies like returning comets. Good to see him. It was almost eleven as we left the pub, and Anton hailed a cab just outside which refused to stop probably as my Dickensian shamble was mistaken for drunkenness. Ironic on a beerless night. I know why the gouty bloke scowls.
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