The subtitle here is Quis Separabit?
I’m trying something a little different this week. A blog of many parts, this being the first. It’s a public holiday here tomorrow (election day for you Yanks), so Part II may to be here until Wednesday.
Shampoo lather sluices from my crown in a cascade before it gurgles into oblivion. Storms have been brewing, both in my mind and in the atmosphere, though the one in my mind is more threatening. An ambush lies here concealed. I know it; I dread it.
Without a further moment’s thought, I step from the shower and pull the yellow towel from the rack. Drying off, shards of thought pierce my mind. Letters become words and words sentences. Spoken in a low voice, my voice, I muddle with the order of sentences, in the hope of finding a paragraph and then smithing them into something decidedly more coherent. Synonyms and similes eddy.
Rachel’s voice transcends the zone. “I’m going to pick up your tux; and then get some groceries!” I think I replied with a grunt, if at all.
Placing the plug in its hole, I fill the sink with piping hot water, dip my shaving brush in and swirl it in the cake of shaving soap. Lathering my jowls, I forget the storm in my mind, as I am too busy concentrating as I steadily go about removing lather with my straight-razor. Taking the utmost care, it takes about 10 minutes. Right, I’m clean-shaven; now to turn my attention to my teeth.
I didn’t return to my thoughts for a few more minutes. Not until I saw the notes from the previous night’s dream (yes, I am dreaming again). I think I have observed previously how the most inspiring moments hit you at the most inopportune of times. So it was. Rachel hadn’t yet returned, so I went about getting down as much as I could.
My fingers flew over the keyboard with an alacrity that has been dramatically remiss – and missed – of late. Anticipation filled my heart and nostrils.
Your voice echoes in my head: “words won’t do me justice at the moment: riveting, lucid, sullen ... magical.” Since then, I’ve tried writing you a little something each day, even if it’s only a thought. Most of it you don’t even see. For each good idea I have a dozen bad ones. Today I just happen to be mid-gush.
The door slides open. I can hear she’s laden down by more than a suit bag.
“You OK?”
“Yes! That’s like the ninety-fourth time you’ve asked since Tuesday. I’m fine.”
She hands over the suit bag, half biting my bottom lip as she does. I linger, before dashing off to change.
Re-emerging a while later, almost dressed to the nines, the pleasure in her eyes is evident. My hand round her hips as she attaches the bowtie and tweaks it and my lapels straight.
She purses her lips and closes “Have a good night.”
The driver’s attempting conversation, but through his indiscernible sub-continental accent and my unwillingness to talk – most unlike me – I find it easier to ignore him for the ten miles into the city.
I ask the driver to stop the car as I realise we’re on the wrong side Spring Street. He brings the car to a halt outside the Windsor Hotel. I alight as he makes some notes, says “thankyou, come again” and drives off. I glance at my watch: Nine minutes past seven. Shit! Dinner’s served at 7.15! Thankfully, I only had to make it beyond the gate and down the corridor.
The yellow stars at the South Door greet me as an old friend. It’s been almost 2 years since I worked here, but that was a surprise. I pass them and make my way into Queen’s Hall.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that the starter course has been delayed and will be served at 7.40. Again, may I convey my apologies?”
I spy my best mate, who’s chatting with my godfather. I cross the floor to greet them. Handshakes exchanged and polite conversation made, I gesture for Phil to step outside with me for a chat as we wait for dinner. The air is thick with the aromas of red wine and Yardley’s English Blazer. It’s pleasant enough, but I rather the smell of broiled concrete mingled with the fresh fruit of storm clouds.
I’m trying something a little different this week. A blog of many parts, this being the first. It’s a public holiday here tomorrow (election day for you Yanks), so Part II may to be here until Wednesday.
Shampoo lather sluices from my crown in a cascade before it gurgles into oblivion. Storms have been brewing, both in my mind and in the atmosphere, though the one in my mind is more threatening. An ambush lies here concealed. I know it; I dread it.
Without a further moment’s thought, I step from the shower and pull the yellow towel from the rack. Drying off, shards of thought pierce my mind. Letters become words and words sentences. Spoken in a low voice, my voice, I muddle with the order of sentences, in the hope of finding a paragraph and then smithing them into something decidedly more coherent. Synonyms and similes eddy.
Rachel’s voice transcends the zone. “I’m going to pick up your tux; and then get some groceries!” I think I replied with a grunt, if at all.
Placing the plug in its hole, I fill the sink with piping hot water, dip my shaving brush in and swirl it in the cake of shaving soap. Lathering my jowls, I forget the storm in my mind, as I am too busy concentrating as I steadily go about removing lather with my straight-razor. Taking the utmost care, it takes about 10 minutes. Right, I’m clean-shaven; now to turn my attention to my teeth.
I didn’t return to my thoughts for a few more minutes. Not until I saw the notes from the previous night’s dream (yes, I am dreaming again). I think I have observed previously how the most inspiring moments hit you at the most inopportune of times. So it was. Rachel hadn’t yet returned, so I went about getting down as much as I could.
My fingers flew over the keyboard with an alacrity that has been dramatically remiss – and missed – of late. Anticipation filled my heart and nostrils.
Your voice echoes in my head: “words won’t do me justice at the moment: riveting, lucid, sullen ... magical.” Since then, I’ve tried writing you a little something each day, even if it’s only a thought. Most of it you don’t even see. For each good idea I have a dozen bad ones. Today I just happen to be mid-gush.
The door slides open. I can hear she’s laden down by more than a suit bag.
“You OK?”
“Yes! That’s like the ninety-fourth time you’ve asked since Tuesday. I’m fine.”
She hands over the suit bag, half biting my bottom lip as she does. I linger, before dashing off to change.
Re-emerging a while later, almost dressed to the nines, the pleasure in her eyes is evident. My hand round her hips as she attaches the bowtie and tweaks it and my lapels straight.
She purses her lips and closes “Have a good night.”
The driver’s attempting conversation, but through his indiscernible sub-continental accent and my unwillingness to talk – most unlike me – I find it easier to ignore him for the ten miles into the city.
I ask the driver to stop the car as I realise we’re on the wrong side Spring Street. He brings the car to a halt outside the Windsor Hotel. I alight as he makes some notes, says “thankyou, come again” and drives off. I glance at my watch: Nine minutes past seven. Shit! Dinner’s served at 7.15! Thankfully, I only had to make it beyond the gate and down the corridor.
The yellow stars at the South Door greet me as an old friend. It’s been almost 2 years since I worked here, but that was a surprise. I pass them and make my way into Queen’s Hall.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that the starter course has been delayed and will be served at 7.40. Again, may I convey my apologies?”
I spy my best mate, who’s chatting with my godfather. I cross the floor to greet them. Handshakes exchanged and polite conversation made, I gesture for Phil to step outside with me for a chat as we wait for dinner. The air is thick with the aromas of red wine and Yardley’s English Blazer. It’s pleasant enough, but I rather the smell of broiled concrete mingled with the fresh fruit of storm clouds.
End Part I
