Idleness and guilt

This has to end! This idleness and guilt. What would Virginia say? Maybe this situation has prevented me visiting an exhibition of her work. I cannot face her disapprobation.

You see it comes down to this. I have all the time in world so I watch the birds. Endlessly busy flitting from feeder to feeder, filling up with the goodies I’ve provided at vast expense. A delightful scene to contemplate their deft tricks in order to divert attention from where they have built their nests. Robins in my greenhouse, or, as it was originally intended, a writing room. And here is where we begin to approach the problem. Nevertheless I have to report that at least two broods have hatched successfully, both from well cushioned plant pots; such industry. And can you believe that after all this time, it must be at least three years of standing uninhabited, the des res I provided, carefully positioned to face north east, has been, to my smug amazement, inhabited by blue tits.

The glorious weather does encourage this distraction and, at least, I have intimate knowledge of the reassuring increase in the number and range of birds visiting private gardens.

Though due to these extensive observations I have become distraught at the lack of butterflies. I mean, here we are in June, the garden overwhelmed by pollen, scent and snicketty little creatures which I think should attract and provide for their every need. But they’re not here. Sad though that is, it allows me another excuse for my outdoor surveillance.

How blissful it is too to be bathed in the perfume of lilies and sweetpeas. To glory in the rose, Sanders White, blossoming abundantly over my pergola, wafting a fragrance that no perfumer can copy. A precious reminder of the time when I was writing, my degree final piece involving an exploration of word and image, a story inspired by a series of postcards of paintings by Eric Ravilious. An invitation to visit his daughter to offer the final manuscript for her approval, resulted in finding this less well-known rose in her garden, making me believe that I would one day be not so little known.

But to achieve that you have to put in the hours of work, the flitting to and fro, the industry.

To add to my guilt, my lack of any reasonable excuse, I have that ‘room of my own’ where I am free to spend time creating a plethora of stories, with no distractions, save the odd pigeon who tries to roost in the wisteria below the window.

Mrs Woolf, I am a disgrace.

My trouble is there are options; three pieces of work to attack, so which one. There is the story buzzing, as the bees are buzzing, around my head, of a boy alone on a roundabout. On the other hand there is the novel, half finished, the latest chapter of which needs serious rewriting; I think it may be a case of slash and burn. Or I could continue with the explanation of exactly what happened in that greenhouse. Which I suppose is why I’m writing this rant. Displacement activity.

Perhaps if I take a photograph first; images always make text look more readable. And a quick click or two on my mobile phone camera is a lot easier than making up the words.

 

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