I returned to Plymouth yesterday, and after just one day to get back into rhythm of normal life after a twelve-day gap, I’m back at work tomorrow, and for three days afterwards. Then of course, it’s back to serious chapter finishing writings because, as previous Wales based posts have shown, I’m behind in that department. Still I blame the TV, and I blame the cat, and I blame being void of flat surfaces, and I know that’s an artist blaming her tools, but if I start blaming myself for these things it gets a tad disheartening. I have a horrible habit of beating myself to a bloody pulp about such matters, and right now, I can’t much take being a bloody pulp.
Surprise, surprise, rain greeted us as we came into Plymouth. I’ve been watching Facebook status updates report days in the sunshine for the past two weeks, and I return to the usual downpour, but actually I’m not that bothered. When it rains the air smells nice, and sounds relaxing. People often remain indoors, so the environment becomes quiet. People seem a little distant right now; I didn’t get to see anybody while in Wales, and my collaborative blog has sadly ground to a work-endued halt, so people feel outside my being. That sounds strange – even to me, that sounds strange, but I’m sure work, with all its colourful menageries of individuals will connect me to life again. And slowly normality will come back. Twelve-days feels longer than it should. Maybe it’s because my return comes on the borderline week. (I like to call the week in which the change of months occurs a borderline week; I’ve always done so, but I can’t entirely remember why).
After abandoning Lady Chatterley’s Lover due to it’s boring nature, I’ve begun reading The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger; the novelette has been on my ‘I-should-read-that’ list for about two years now, but I thought someone must be sending me a sign when I found an old copy of the title on my Father’s bookshelf. He bought the book in the 60’s under school obligation. The price on the back reads 20p. The copyright is held for 1953. This was my dad’s English assignment when he was in school; he turned the same pages, and he left scuff marks on the cover. I think he was very happy I’d discovered it. It’s not like my father to show these kinds of sentimental emotions, but having decided to leave the copy, something I assumed was precious to him, at my parents house, I found it had been placed atop my writing supplies in the dining-room. So, I took it with me. Come to think of it, I think I’m the only person I know who isn’t reading it because a teacher is insisting I do so. Aren’t I cultured? In truth, I’m probably only doing so because, in a weird way, it makes me feel connected to my father.
Later this week, I’ll be backdating a couple of posts I didn’t get a chance to upload on their allocated days, things I’d like to document in their proper order.