Hmmm. The longer term forecast suggests the delivery of several large parcels of arctic air.
It’s bizarre to see the graphics show a warmer orange colour for the Maritimes and a bold blue for BC! On va voir….
The leaves are on the turn. I noticed the start of it the other evening. Mustard-yellowing and a bit of saffron red appearing. Sun too. It’s funny to see people wearing bright red wellies at 5pm having set out in a rainy morning to work and left to home to discover A. N. Other on the way home.
Weather exile, nay exhilaration
Fog (Sun eve) my first official note of fog amid bewilderment as to whether in actual fact I merely need new glasses.
Fog – rain – rain – wind (bit) – immense over cast grey bulge — rain – rain – rain.
This morning it’s confirmed a La Nina Winter Forecast for us this winter. What this means will become apparent as I continue “past-casting”.
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In Murakami weather moments I can report a degree of exhilaration running with water dripping off my sleeves and nose and eyelashes. I passed a completely bereft park and laughed out loud at how ridiculous running in pouring rain is.
But I admired the 8 people out strolling under umbrellas yesterday.
Last night I had the worst nightmare. It was very lengthy. It was about Zizek and my mother. I will never forgive that man for destroying my sleep. Not even childhood memories of Slovenia in the 1980’s can compensate because I have never howled so much in a dream. I cried so much in that dream I expected to see my appendix splatted above on the ceiling when I woke up.
I have already a bumpy enough relationship with sleeping without Mr. Zizek occupying it. Be off! Be gone! Stick to Wall Street! I am in the one percentile for slumber. Go and bother the 99 percent who sleep well.
Yesterday’s question was swiftly confirmed today when I learnt that a body had been discovered in a house close by that caught fire this weekend.
It had been presumed and hoped there was no one in the house. The fire brigade had been unable to enter the house because it was an enclave of hoarding, which made it very tough to enter and they were concerned the “joints would collapse” according to one neighbour I spoke to.
An excavator had been at the house, combing seems too mild a term, crunching through the facade and rubble and finally today a man’s body was discovered. The man was the son of the woman who owns the house. (who lives in a care home.) Allegedly the hoarding problem belonged to the mother, the son was unemployed and staying there long term.
A bed and bathtub were visible in the charred ruins and mass of debris. In the basement sat all the boxes I used to see covering up the windows, still intact. On the pavement beside the house, half a plastic doll lay burnt with one arm raised in the air.
It was desperately sad, just an awful death for this largely invisible man. I stood in the pouring rain and paid my respects with the Catholic gestures I’ve been taught. It was just so sad to think of the fearful end he must have faced and that no one could reach him.
I felt gutted as I read Joyce Vincent’s story. Maybe because these places and this woman are somehow familiar to me. I lived for a time in one of those Housing Association flats, I also lived in Wood Green and I often had the thought you could die in London and absolutely nobody would notice. Somehow Joyce Vincent’s story confirms this.
Is it any different anywhere else? I’d love to confidently say it is, but cannot. I think there are likely hundreds of thousands of people like Joyce living amongst us, beside us. Tennessee Williams used to say loneliness was a bigger killer than heart disease (or perhaps I wrongly attribute him, but he certainly had things to say about loneliness).
There’s a member of the Irish rugby team, named Kidney, a Mr Kidney. Every time I see his name in a headline (*) with the word pain I actively wince. It’s some kind of inbuilt neuro-cognitive-renal reaction from my own set of what was recently revealed to be three in number. (I think Mr Kidney has the standard two will confirm if ever we are introduced)
*Kidney feels the hurt after Wales execute perfect plan (The Irish Times, Mon. Oct 10, 2011)
Valves
BBC Radio 4 long wave, which transmits on the 198 kilohertz frequency, relies on ageing transmitter equipment that uses a pair of the valves – no longer manufactured – to function.
The valves, at Droitwitch in Worcestershire, are so rare that engineers say there are fewer than 10 in the world, and the BBC has been forced to buy up the entire global supply. Each lasts anywhere between one and 10 years, and when one of the last two blows the service will go quiet.
Ah Mike Leigh films, the welcome relief of overlapping dialogue, unbrushed hair, talk of the railways and overcast skies. I am deeply envious of that shed like shelter in the allotment where they drink tea.
“Sounds like he was duplicitous shit…”
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“Matt with the guitar”
“No, that’s Paul”
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Why on earth is Netflix recommending Barnyard Tales and The Secret of Mary Magdalene as my personal recommendations. I guess this is a step up from Space Chimps.