Splendid day!

Photograph by Denis Secundus

I awakened this Sabbath morning to the receipt of several freshly minted photographs taken by a family relation who exhibited as well his youthful cheerfulness and vitality by having captured the fetching early morning views on a tolerably lengthy walk from his Island digs parallel the river towards the Village of Blakeney. His exuberance evinces the contemporaneous seasonal bestirring of Nature. As plain as a pikestaff it is within one’s veins!

Most Jews who observe the Sabbath regard it as having been instituted as a perpetual covenant for the Israelites (Exodus 31:13–17), as a sign respecting two events: the day during which God rested after having completed Creation in six days (Exodus 20:8–11) and the Israelites’ deliverance from Egypt (Deuteronomy 5:12–15). However, most Sabbath-keeping Christians regard the Sabbath as having been instituted by God at the end of Creation week and that the entire world was then, and continues to be, obliged to observe the seventh day as Sabbath.

What in fact I had anticipated this morning was not photographs but a day of being alone. Unlike the transport and athletic flourish of Denis Secundus, today’s initial stirring effectuated within me minor trepidation as I vexedly contemplated the awfy occasion to be alone. I suddenly felt uncommonly ancient and doddering, inexplicably in need and at risk of complete discombobulation. Silly, I know, but the urgency of the impending peril was quite unaccustomed. Nonetheless I sensed as well that it behooved me to prove my worth, to triumph the unfettered field of anonymity before me, to quell the uncontrollable urges to admit defeat and decomposition, bravely to face eternity!

Happily I recovered from the confusion.  Perhaps it was the decidedly chilly and gloomy weather, a mixture of intermittent rain and pervasive grey clouds, which distracted me and enforced its renowned pensiveness. Or maybe it was the more compelling and unusual obligation to consider the managment and production of the evening meal.  This I can tell you entailed driving my automobile; there was no domestic threat of having to familiarize myself with either the ‘fridge or the stove – or the cupboards for that matter. My ineptitude in the kitchen is beyond words.  Thanks however to the inimitable knowledge of Chef (the same who is author of my current doom), I have been introduced to the excellence of La Maison Du Kouign-Amann (Authentic French Delicacies).

Accordingly I rallied myself for a drive in my automobile to the city. With the intemperate weather I was obliged to keep the windows closed.  This in turn meant I had opportunity to listen to music. Which I did to my entire delight, at times raising the volume to a level which for others might have been uncomfortable, and switching choice of music indiscriminately.

But the unsurpassable enthrallment today was the trip to La Maison Du Kouign-Amann (Authentic French Delicacies). Although I had driven Chef to La Maison before, I had always stayed in the car. Today I ventured inside.  As I told the cashier, “This is a dangerous place!” Thankfully I had remembered to bring with me a shopping bag. I tried as best I could on this maiden visit to examine everything within sight. I finally gave up.

Back home has wrought characteristic harmony. Chef returned briefly before yet another hockey game (might even be Junior A or B).  This conjunction afforded us the opportunity to examine the contents of the shopping bag. Without further interruption I went below stairs to the subterranean garage where I rolled about in my tricycle for the better part of an hour interrupted only briefly by an expectably animated conversation with Stuart. For me the ephemeral cycle brought the comfort of custom to an otherwise lonely afternoon. I won’t pretend there is any athletic merit in my cycling. When I regained the apartment, all was in order, the way it always is.  I think my paramount duty before sitting at table this evening is to turn off the stove.