Dear Diary,
Welcome to the sixth Sunday of the year!
A sunny one, as it happens, where I am. Surprisingly mild, the temperature is more fitting for April than February, but who is complaining? Not me.
(Edit: In the time it has taken to finish this post, it has started raining. The sky is entirely covered in grey. Ah well! The British weather brings the ‘Enjoy it while it lasts’ saying to life. Every single day.)
The Week’s Round-Up
Poetry is hard. This is the conclusion I have come to after weeks of using it as a segway into longer form and / or prose in Writing Club. While it is true that I have not studied poetry – in Bulgarian, let alone in English; the focus at school was on analysing short stories and novels – I am also of the opinion that I do not suit poetry. I do not have a knack for rhythm in the way that poetry demands of its parent or creator. My inability to express myself through a poem might also have something to do with the extreme brevity that it imposes. I have a tendency to not get on with it and describe the look, and smell, and feel of a forest. You know, just in case someone has not seen or ever rested in one.
All that said, on Friday, I rhymed! My ten-line poem was not half bad, if I should say so myself. It was not good, by any stretch of the imagination, but it was marginally better than what I had previously produced.
In preparation for Monday, I have completed the introduction module to my Creative Writing Course, dealing with deadlines, the dates for the Zoom Calls, and forum etiquette. Having signed up and logged onto my account, I have gained access to a handful of free courses which, of course, I have added to my dashboard; one down, four to go.
Now, she was very polite, lovely indeed, but a *insert the name of a widely spread religious denomination* rep knocked on my door on Friday, asking if I was working from home.
“Yup, I am. Working from home.” (“Why does this matter?”)
“I have lived here all my life, I never knew these houses existed. Did it happen during Covid?”
“That’s correct.” (“Are you sure you were not among the people that objected to the building site?”)
“There must be a nice view at the back?”
“Yes, the field beats another garden’s fence.” (“You aren’t entering to see for yourself…”).
“I can imagine. I’ll just give this to you…”, she proceeds to hand me a flyer and says, “Have a great day!”.
“Thank you, you too!” (“You could have just put the flyer through the letter box, but I guess this is my quota of face-to-face human interaction for the day filled, so we are good.”)
The cat saga continues! Nonchalantly, they make themselves comfortable in our garden; with disdain, they observe the dogs, tainting them with those curling tails. They scowl at me for having the nerve to ask them to go away. For now, I hold my tongue, but a neighbourly chat may be required.
The Little Things
A notebook for ‘Notes & Important Things’ whose front and back covers boast illustrations of zesty lemons: whole lemons, sliced lemons. An eucalyptus-scented set of tea candles to fill the designated writing space with a fresh smell.
Thoughtful gifts beat big, expensive, thoughtless gifts.
Lifts in the rain, because only weirdos are keen on, or actively seek, getting drenched in a downpour!
(Psssstttt, if this is you, yay! Go, go, go! Weirdo is a loving term anyway. For me, being soaked is a scheduled activity, e.g., a shower, a bath, a swim…).