It was actually light when I left for work this
morning; really light, not the feeble grey murk I've come to expect over the
last few weeks. Even better, it was still light when I got home, and
stayed that way for over an hour. So instead of settling down to do some
writing, I've been staring out of the window. My fruit trees are just
starting to bud, and they look lovely. A poor excuse, I know.
Especially when you consider the achievements of others, who had much better
views than I have to distract them.
Take Dickens, for example. Several years ago
I visited Bleak House
in Broadstairs and stood at his desk, gazing at the sea. OK, so the English
Channel isn't the most beautiful waterway in the world, but on that particular
day it was calm all the way to the horizon, and it was completely
mesmerising. In rough weather it must be amazing. How Dickens ever managed to
put pen to paper there I'll never know, let alone write something the length of
David Copperfield.
All I've managed to write tonight is a note to the
man who's coming tomorrow to lop the tops off the very trees I've been
gazing at. They might be lovely, but they are too tall. I am
slightly worried about the pruning, as my beloved will be supervising the
proceedings and, if I don't leave detailed instructions and a diagram, it could
be 'short back and sides and stand up straight' for my
sentries, rather than 'just follow the wave and trim it a
bit'. Then the only view I'd have would be of the Leisure Centre;
hardly distracting, but not very inspiring either.