|Home Alone 2: Lost in New York|
I'm sitting in front of the television now, writing while watching Home Alone 2: Lost in New York, the one with the woman with all the pigeons. I put Home Alone into the same category as Back to the Future. I've never sat down and watched it from the beginning; it's always on, normally over bank holidays and and what's really needed now, of course, is a cake. A cake and a cup of tea and nothing on the agenda. Except there IS something on the agenda. It's minor, but it's nagging away at me: the bins have to be put out and I've got to do it. But not right now. Right now I can just sit here, writing (some might say typing – that's what Truman Capote said of Jack Kerouac's On the Road). Not that I'm in any way equating what I'm writing with either Truman Capote or Jack Kerouac, although I tend to agree with Capote's view of Kerouac's masterpiece. Apparently he fed a roll of paper into his typewriter, took a load of speed and started typing or writing, depending on your point of view.
This afternoon the weather has been fine. The wind has dropped and the sun has shone, but now – at just gone 1800hrs – the skies are darkening and there's spitting rain. Last night in bed the wind howled and moaned. Trees have been uprooted all over the place and this morning there was 'travel chaos'.
I sent Andy a text around 0625hrs saying abort because of the wind. He agreed and that means we didn't go out all weekend. Andy went out on Good Friday, but that was it. My bike has sat in the garage and hasn't been out since last weekend. What a sham.
Oddly, the weather seems to have improved from 14 minutes ago. The grey clouds have gone, there are trees silhouetted against bright blue skies, but nothing much to look forward to other than going to work for the rest of the week. That's the worst thing about a few days off, soon enough the time comes when you've got to head back to work or school or whatever it is you class as normality. Or perhaps being at home is normality and working and studying is abnormal. Who knows? Who cares?