The febrile background of an orthodoxy, prevalent for my entire life, beginning to crumble
(I’m not saying, by the way, that it mightn’t stop crumbling at any minute – even now it seems difficult to believe there will be lasting change, although it certainly feels like the biggest opportunity in a generation) has provided a curious charge to the relatively banal events of my own life in the last few days. I think the weather might have something to do with it as well – the strange fluctuations between downpour and bright blue skies; thunder, drizzle, and sunbathing. This has been a week of picnics on the grass in Russell Square, of tramping alone, moon-lit, through an apparently empty university campus in Stoke (admiring trees). Cheap first class train travel, the fallout of a health and safety inspection, Senate House library in the off-season, the recurrance (Milton Keynes) of the Maxim Gun. Unexpected strains of boisterous, accordion-fuelled sea-shanties drifting over the night-sands at Greenwich, weaving between the towers of the power-station pier. An old friend and a planetarium, Return of the Jedi
, the junior novelisation of Jurassic Park, the Millenium
trilogy, a banquet and a horrible pizza. And everywhere this curious energy, produced in the place between activity and stagnation, between contentment and loneliness, comfort and uncertainty. The sun through black clouds, cool pyjamas, another thirty cups of tea down and a waterstone’s gift voucher up. Truck festival and teacher training next week.
I also vacuumed the living room.