Ruddy busy days, Sundays.
Misty moisty start to the day. The lone swan was still in residence on the lower lake as I rode by on Margot, my favourite hacking Indian. The swan’s possibly some sort of avian malcontent or ne’er do well. If he’s still here in December I shall have him put in the Christmas menu. Ducky-things on the other side of the nesting island in the second photo seem to be ignorin’ him properly.
Got a meetin’ of the Civil Defence Committee later on this morning. How to build a domestic emergency nuclear bunker with just a pen-knife, the dog’s bed and three tins of sardines, that sort of thing. The idea is to have some sort of practice drill next month, see how people react, take the opportunity in the confusion to make a few folk quietly disappear off the radar and such.
Bally nuisance since it’ll like as not take up a whole day when I should be billiardsin’ or playing elephant water-polo or writin’ a couple of chapters of the latest opus magnum.
Slight problem there anyway; probably a two-decanter sized problem. Just scrapped the entire draft of “The Model-T Virgin” and decided to point the whole story a little more qto libeccio verso ponente so to speak, or southwest by west as Nanny used to bluntly term it whenever it was her turn to play Captain.
The Model-T Virgin story’s basically about the migration of the Human Race and how migrations are never geographical but always social – never matters where we go, we just don’t want to stay where we are. It’s a surprisingly cheerful little work on how every social division that every there is at the moment among hoomans (SIC, silly animals) will always remain. We may bury them from time to time but so long as each individual feels isolated in their skull like some lonesome homunculus we hoomans will always, always compare ourselves to others, and thus the racisms, sexisms, holier than thou-isms and feelings of being more or less athletic, educated, skinny, portly, good-looking or ugly will endure.
The first and last time the Human Race moved house simply out of curiosity or by accident and not from some dissatisfaction was when Mitochondrial Eve upped sticks and wandered out of Keenyah. I love to think of her getting up one morning and, still half asleep, treating the dog to an extra-long walk only to find herself off the map and on completely unfamiliar roads, still in nightie, slippers and curlers. Fortunate indeed for Homo-iPodius that she then hitched a lift with some Swedish Neanderthal tourists heading back north in their split-screen Volkswagen minibus.
The Human species has more in common with a pack of dogs than just fleas and a tendency to pee up trees when the opportunity presents. The very act of gently sidling off to set up home somewhere fresh and away from the previous status quo almost invariably escalates into a vicious rout, with the discontented parties (already self-defined by their feelings of minority) pursued by the slavering, ravening hordes (all eager to agree with each other that they are the majority).
Rather like wacking the butler with a soup-ladle whenever the consommé tastes of below-stairs urine, it’s a positive-feedback system.
Oh well, I shall get to the re-write immediately the Civil Defence meeting kicks out. May have my writing desk and secretary moved out from under the stairs first though. I seriously doubt that the scrofulous peasantry will be flinging nuclear weapons and fall-out about today. Not on a Sunday. Surely?
Now. Dressin’ – what to wear? The khaki chiffon two-piece I think, with the pearls, sensible shoes and my medals. As for underwear, well – it’s Sunday, so I think I’ll go commando again Fotheringham. No sense in making washing, what?