Still alive
April 12th 2007 10:54
Well, what can I say. Life’s a bitch and she bites.
I have moved house, more or less. I got a job with a news paper. Well more or less. Some days more and some days less. I now have a website.
“Moving house” is perhaps far to an ambitious phrase for the reality. Or perhaps not. We have moved a bit more than a hundred metres. Hell, we’re still moving. We used to live in a couple of caravans with an annex. Did so for longer than I care to remember. It is amazing to, in this day of credit for everything, find that one really can build a house without borrowing a zak. But I digress, moving is the tale. Moving a hundred metres sounds easy when said. But, actually doing it, with arms loaded or a full wheelbarrow. Unpacking the library and putting it on shelves in my office, making furniture, painting, and all the other things one does when moving into a new house. Well I’ve been busy.
And the job with the news paper? Well, it is interesting and taxes the imagination. Technically I write editorials. Reality is that I write real estate ads for houses.
Life may be a bitch and she may really bite, but damn it’s habit forming.
So here I am telling you a tale that you probably don’t want to hear.
Now that you are bored to tears you can read this. It was set as the question “What advice would you as an eighty year old tell yourself at the age of fifty years old”?
There I am. Sitting on that bench over there near the Turkish Takeaway. God did I ever look like that scruffy sod. As I sit down next to myself I, well he really, looks up. A startled look flashes across his face. Then a look of relief settles there.
I can’t help myself. ‘Seen a ghost kid?’
‘Ah. . . No. Just thought I knew you. Do I know you?’
‘Do you want to?’
‘Huh?’
‘I said do you want to? Know me that is.’
With a look bordering on panic he says. ‘I think I do already. I just can’t remember where.’
‘Yeah, well it will come to you.’ The thought of “In about thirty years” crosses my mind. I press on. ‘Doing your shopping?’
‘No. Just had lunch. Got a class in half an hour.’
‘Bit old to be a student aren’t you? You would have to be at least fifty three.’
‘What? Ah yes. . . No. That is, I’m not to old to be a student and how did you know I’m fifty three?’
‘Just a guess. What are you doing in school?’
‘Writing, creative writing really’
‘Good for you. I’m a writer myself. Quite successful really.’
‘Was it hard? I mean being successful.’
‘Yes and no. It did take work, but then I’ve never had so much fun either.’
He stands and looks at me as if he is hearing echos and says.‘I’ve got to go, or I’ll be late.’ As he starts to walk away he turns and asks. ‘Is there a secret to success? Something I should know?’
‘Enjoy what your doing.’
The moral is. . . , Shit, I don’t think there is one.
I have moved house, more or less. I got a job with a news paper. Well more or less. Some days more and some days less. I now have a website.
“Moving house” is perhaps far to an ambitious phrase for the reality. Or perhaps not. We have moved a bit more than a hundred metres. Hell, we’re still moving. We used to live in a couple of caravans with an annex. Did so for longer than I care to remember. It is amazing to, in this day of credit for everything, find that one really can build a house without borrowing a zak. But I digress, moving is the tale. Moving a hundred metres sounds easy when said. But, actually doing it, with arms loaded or a full wheelbarrow. Unpacking the library and putting it on shelves in my office, making furniture, painting, and all the other things one does when moving into a new house. Well I’ve been busy.
And the job with the news paper? Well, it is interesting and taxes the imagination. Technically I write editorials. Reality is that I write real estate ads for houses.
Life may be a bitch and she may really bite, but damn it’s habit forming.
So here I am telling you a tale that you probably don’t want to hear.
Now that you are bored to tears you can read this. It was set as the question “What advice would you as an eighty year old tell yourself at the age of fifty years old”?
There I am. Sitting on that bench over there near the Turkish Takeaway. God did I ever look like that scruffy sod. As I sit down next to myself I, well he really, looks up. A startled look flashes across his face. Then a look of relief settles there.
I can’t help myself. ‘Seen a ghost kid?’
‘Ah. . . No. Just thought I knew you. Do I know you?’
‘Do you want to?’
‘Huh?’
‘I said do you want to? Know me that is.’
With a look bordering on panic he says. ‘I think I do already. I just can’t remember where.’
‘Yeah, well it will come to you.’ The thought of “In about thirty years” crosses my mind. I press on. ‘Doing your shopping?’
‘No. Just had lunch. Got a class in half an hour.’
‘Bit old to be a student aren’t you? You would have to be at least fifty three.’
‘What? Ah yes. . . No. That is, I’m not to old to be a student and how did you know I’m fifty three?’
‘Just a guess. What are you doing in school?’
‘Writing, creative writing really’
‘Good for you. I’m a writer myself. Quite successful really.’
‘Was it hard? I mean being successful.’
‘Yes and no. It did take work, but then I’ve never had so much fun either.’
He stands and looks at me as if he is hearing echos and says.‘I’ve got to go, or I’ll be late.’ As he starts to walk away he turns and asks. ‘Is there a secret to success? Something I should know?’
‘Enjoy what your doing.’
The moral is. . . , Shit, I don’t think there is one.
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