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It is seldom if ever that I have responded to an invitation by a retailer to promote its product for free benefits. This however is an exception. Not because I want free benefits but because I adore the product. I am hugely impressed with the retailer in this instance. Quite frankly I willingly and heartily embrace the chance to speak endearingly of it.
To my credit I began the day by reading The History of England by Thomas Frederick Tout.
Born in London, he was a pupil of St Olave’s Grammar School, still then at Southwark, a graduate of Balliol College, Oxford, and a fellow of Pembroke, but failing to obtain permanent fellowships at All Souls (1879) and Lincoln, his first academic post was at St David’s University College, Lampeter (now the University of Wales, Lampeter), where his job title was ‘Professor of English and Modern Languages’.
Forgive me. I can’t resist the view from the balcony. Even on a rainy day. Yesterday the brilliance of the sunshine and the effulgence of the blue sky were remarkable. But we all need a break. Even from the good stuff.
Having drained myself of energy yesterday (and having overnight survived an indecipherable though completely irritating and sporadic sound) I’m rather enjoying gazing blankly upriver at the distant clouds. In fact the azure dome is completely clear. All evidence of storm has passed. The cumulonimbus subsides on the horizon as though being drawn over the edge. In the meantime I am saturating myself with my own tonic of schmaltz, deep bass notes and delicate pianissimo on the keyboard.
Man was not intended to live like a bear or a hermit, apart from others of his own nature, and, philosophy and reason will each agree with me, that man was born for sociability and finds his true delight in society. Society is a word capable of many meanings, and used here in each and all of them. Society, par excellence; the world at large; the little clique to which he is bound by early ties; the companionship of friends or relatives; even society tete a tete with one dear sympathizing soul, are pleasant states for a man to be in.
This society, composed, as it is, of many varying natures and elements, where each individual must submit to merge his own identity into the universal whole, which makes the word and state, is divided and subdivided into various cliques, and has a pastime for every disposition, grave or gay; and with each division rises up a new set of forms and ceremonies to be observed if you wish to glide down the current of polite life, smoothly and pleasantly.
This morning upon awakening I was smitten by an email from Mrs. Conscience (as I now call her). Mrs C is a new but in many ways an old friend. She and I have a caring relationship animated by humour (mostly on my part if I may say so) and directness (mostly on her part). In addition to my old friend being stubborn (which of course she has repeatedly denied and then embellished with threats of abandoning our acquaintance), she is always attacking my seeming disquietude (to which objection once rendered I predictably end up crawling). She commands social regulation surpassing anything the “The Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette and Manual of Politeness (rules for the etiquette to be observed in the street, at table, in the ball room, evening party, and morning call; with full directions for polite correspondence, dress, conversation, manly exercises and accomplishments)” by Cecil B. Hartley (1860) would ever have imagined or prescribed.
My unhurried lethargic day has nonetheless survived descending to listlessness, that passive state of indolence that borders on being disinterested. Partly I have been rendered impassive as I awaited the results of two important exchanges which arose late yesterday afternoon. My anxieties have since been answered. I won’t say that I’ve hit Middle C but the polar extensions are most certainly reduced and relaxed. Compared to the attention I devote to the warm, painful steel plate that is now my left knee, almost everything else is of moderately less persuasion. In terms of interest the enduring focus is now the nature and status of our precipitously altered winter travel plans. Even readjusting to the committed amendments we’ve chosen requires a certain psychological medication for its complete embrace. For the record – and to quell any misapprehension of dissatisfaction – I am thrilled with what’s been booked and what’s ahead. I’m just still spinning from the fortuity and body of the recasting.
On April 27th last we returned home to Canada – slightly jarred and damaged – from our winter sojourn on Key Largo. The estate agent knicked our travel plans for the comng year because our former landlord decided the sell the place. Now after 4 months of getting settled in our new locale on terra firma (this time with a corporate landlord and the accommodating nicety of perpetual existence), adjusting to altered living and parking arrangements, familiarizing ourselves with the neighbourhood and the people, daily reliving the splendour of the view of the fertile meadow, the constant motion of the river and the thrill of glimpsing a hawk, a fox and a variety of birds, the sky is at last beginning to clear. The transition is now both up and down as we, like painters of our own work of art, complete the colours and intensity of the entirety of canvass.
A punt is a flat-bottomed boat with a square-cut bow designed for use in small rivers and shallow water.
Punting is boating in a punt; the punter propels the punt by pushing against the river bed with a pole. Punts were originally built as cargo boats and as platforms for fowling and for fishing, such as angling; whereas now punting is boating for pleasure.
The enthusiasm which precedes a dinner invitation from my erstwhile physician at his country estate in the nearby Village of Ashton is palpable. We accelerated and amplified the avidity by first having collected another of the dinner guests to accompany us to the rural resort. On the drive there we shared animated tales and reminders of past spirited events together. We were however not the only long-standing friends of the family in attendance. As I remarked at one point throughout the evening as we dined in the inexpressible summer ambience, a number of us have in the past dined together as far abroad as Rome, Sardegna, Montepulciano, Siesta Key and of course at our own residence in the Town of Almonte and also at private dinner parties in public venues in the city.