Ah, it’s so nice to be back in the country. So peaceful. So quiet. Nothing but the twittering birds and the frolicking deer; nothing but the slight breeze rustling through the trees and the sun shimmering on the surface of the pond. Ooh, if I squint I can see a wee red squirrel gracefully launch itself from one branch to another. It pirouettes through the air like a dancer, landing with such ease it’s almost as if it didn’t land at all.
God, I’m bored.
It’s only ten o’ clock in the morning and I’ve already done my washing, had my breakfast, booked some flat viewings and noted down jobs to apply for (I can’t actually apply for them until I have a printer, ok? Well, I guess I could prepare my answers, but…maybe later). It’s like that episode on Friends when Ross is not fired, but ON SABBATICAL, and he gets all his tasks on his to-do lists done before lunchtime. Joey tells him he needs to learn to spread out his tasks throughout the week so I guess, until I get a job, that’s what I’m going to have to do. Ah, Friends. It’s taught me so much in the ways of life. What would I have done without its wisdom?
Thank goodness for books. And at least reading feels slightly more productive than watching t.v. It probably isn’t any more productive at all. It just helps you feel a tad more intellectual, even if you’re reading the same, predictable crime novels over and over again. Although, actually, that’s not what I’m reading at the minute. I’m reading something about the holocaust – The Storyteller – and despite it having some questionable, uber cheesy lines such as the response to the question, “Miss, are you alright?” being “As if that were an easy answer. As if I could reply with a single word” (BLEH), it’s actually a pretty good story. It’s told from four different view-points. One is from an old man who was a nazi during the war and who worked at Auschwitz, and while you’re reading his story, you’re sort of contemplating how difficult it would be NOT to become a nazi if you were born into an antisemitic Germany. You sort of understand how something so horrific could have happened, but then the novel switches to a story from a survivor of the holocaust and you’re all like, KILL THE NAZIS, KILL THEM ALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
So yeah, it sort of plays with your emotions. I like it.
I’ll be going up to my dad’s later. My brother’s home as well and he, my mum, and myself might all be at dad’s for dinner. That’ll be weird. I don’t think we’ve all had dinner together in a VERY long time. Modern families, eh? The last time my mum, dad, and myself had dinner the conversation went a little like this:
Mum: How old are you now? 67?
Mum: Hmm, you’re looking well for your age.
Dad: Oh, you should see me with my clothes off!
They laugh, while I try and bury myself in my mashed tatties.
Seriously, it’s embarrassing when married parents act like this, let alone DIVORCED parents. I really am considering therapy.