Skip to main content

The soothing dullness of the prosaic

First up thanks to all for kind thoughts, words and deeds. It's all much appreciated (though those words do the degree of a appreciation a gross injustice). It's impossible, I feel, to adequately convey a reaction or emotion under this sort of circumstance. One of the reasons I chose not to speak at the funeral is that every sentiment sounds like a Hallmark card, it sticks in my throat, it doesn't seem enough, somehow, and I loathe retreating into the prosaic, the rote, the truism. It seems like I'm doing him down by not coming up with something better.

But hey, truism alert, life goes on.

So it does, this is incontrovertible. Seasons turn yadda yadda yadda. Save it for the film of the book of the film if you please, doubtless the heroine will love again, her boyfriend from the first scene's still bleeding dead though, isn't he? So no "moving on" (appalling phrase) is something I don't see occuring any time soon.

But, but, see above. Life goes on. yes it does, of course it does. Grieving doesn't pay the bills. So thank the deity of your choice that as a repressed Briton I get to sublimate everything into work. Huzzah! Scrub them pans, bake them scones, dish up them fritattas. Ponder the mysteries of life (such as where the fuck has everyone in Ormskirk gone? seriously, the place is deserted, shopkeepers meet each other's worried glances as they peer out of doors scanning the deserted streets, it's freaky, I tell's ya), do your bit, come home, try to be a nice guy. And it does get marginally easier to do so each day. Another hundred-odd customers would be nice, though; much easier not to think when you're getting battered.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A whole new world.

I appear to have moved into the pub. Now, I don't wish to give the impression that this has come as a complete surprise to me, we'be been planning to do so since shortly after I bought it, but still, it's sort of snuck up on me and now I'm waking up and thinking what happened? How come I'm here? The reason for this discombobulation is that this move was initially a temporary measure. Mrs Coastalblog had some relatives coming to stay, and it made sense to put them up in our house while we decamped to the flat. It's still a work in progress, but a mad week of cleaning and carting stuff around made it habitable. I had a suspicion that once we were in we'd be back and forth for a few weeks. As with many of my hunches, I was completely and utterly wrong. As it turned out, once we were here, we were here. Things moved at pace and, now our kitchen appliances have been installed, there's no going back, the old house is unusable. It's left me with slightly mi

Mad Dogs and Immigration Ministers

It is with no small degree of distress that I'm afraid to say I've been thinking about Robert Jenrick. I know, I know, in this beautiful world with its myriad of wonders, thetre are many other things about which I could think, the play of sunlight upon dappled water, the laughter of my children, the song thrush calling from the sycamore tree a few yards away from where I type this. Yet the shiny, faintly porcine features of the Minister for Immigration keep bubbling up into my consciousness. It's a pain in the arse, I tell you. A few years ago on here I wrote a piece entitled The cruelty is the point in which I argued that some policies are cruelty simply for the sake of it, pour decourager les autres . I was reminded of that recently when I listened to Jenrick defending his unpleasant, petty decision to order murals at a migrant children's centre to be painted over. You've probably heard the story already; deeming pictures of cartoon characters "too welcoming&

Genius loci

 At the back end of last week, I heard a sound which told me Autumn had truly arrived. It seemed out of place, as we sweltered in unseasonable warmth, but it is as reliable an indicator if the seasons turning as leaves browning. A slightly comical, slightly mournful honking, early in the morning then again at the turn of the day The pink-footed geese are back. It is one of those sounds which is part of the fabric of this place, the siren being tested at Ashworth Hospital means it's Monday, Bringing practice means it's Tuesday, and the migration of the Pinks to their wintering grounds at Martin Mere means it's time to dig the jumpers out. It is one thing I do think I'd miss if I moved away. The arrival of these faintly ludicrous birds, strung out loosely against the sky in their rough v formations is something which seems to have burrowed its way deep into my consciousness, a sign that yes, things are definitely not all they could be, but some things are still working. T