or search for 'martin cadwell -caldwell' Take note of the position of the minus sign to eliminate caldwell returns or search for 'martin cadwell blog' in your browser.
I am not on YouTube or social media
[ 3 minute read ]
Caffeine and fervour
The pub is shut and the carpets are moist. The tills are empty and the hosts still sleep. The village is quiet until a car leaves for work in the city.
The Party Sevens and Party Fours have been drunk, the Babycham sipped and the alcopops swigged. The port and the brandy has gone; the Stella and the Special Brew quaffed. The tinsel has fallen in places and the mistletoe is on the floor. Outside, the cigarette and roach ends are wet; the cars are parked slightly out of kilter and the front garden hedges have dents in them.
The carpets are swept; the fireplaces are clean and laid, and the horses are groomed. Dawn is still the best kisser and Lily has learnt from her. The footsteps in the snow all lead to the back door while the ones at the front fade, along with the carriage tracks. There will be a new baby in September; it will resemble the master of the house but not the mistress. There will be another, born to the mistress; it will look different to its 'siblings'; the children in the house.
The goose is picked clean and broken for the pot, and the pickles now put away and the orange peel saved. The fire is sparking and water is warming. The doorstep has fresh mud on it and the smell of cattle and milk is rife. It mixes with baking bread. The house is awake and the fields and the forest wait.
No matter how you live or lived, it is all done now; finished except for the most hardy of celebrants and the faithful; for them there are five more days. But it is a new year for most of the world anyway. The trees are shedding their needles and most will be removed because we need to relentlessly move on. Work schedules start again for many people tomorrow and activities will be curtailed to meet bedtimes. The shops are open, though not for so many hours as tomorrow or yesterday. It is push, push, push, but no-one really notices or cares any more.
I didn't get drunk last night; I went to bed, hoping that the New Year cheer did not spill into my home with raucous shouts and clamour. I have things to do but must tread carefully around the sensibilities of my neighbours. I am keen to dig my garden and repair my bicycles. I am keen to deep-clean my home and study more densely. I am keen to be keen. I know that I am fuelled by caffeine and my fervour will fade; it is temporary and can be plotted like a bell curve throughout the day.
Today will be spent looking at the shreds and tatters I left myself yesterday. Years of learning needs to be reassessed and priorities laid down with principles addressed. Preparation needs to be done for the coming year. I didn't leave any 'startings' last year. There are only 'leavings'; embers and no tinder. There are no pickles in my cupboard this Winter; I did not engage with preservation or preparation; only boorish eating and drinking, but not for pleasure; for fuel. There is a starkness that needs to be filled, and colours need to be added to banality and routine. Reflection needs to become action. Memory needs to become curiousity, and comfort needs to become movement.
Caffeine and fervour
All my posts: https://learn1.open.ac.uk/mod/oublog/view.php?u=zw219551
or search for 'martin cadwell -caldwell' Take note of the position of the minus sign to eliminate caldwell returns or search for 'martin cadwell blog' in your browser.
I am not on YouTube or social media
[ 3 minute read ]
Caffeine and fervour
The pub is shut and the carpets are moist. The tills are empty and the hosts still sleep. The village is quiet until a car leaves for work in the city.
The Party Sevens and Party Fours have been drunk, the Babycham sipped and the alcopops swigged. The port and the brandy has gone; the Stella and the Special Brew quaffed. The tinsel has fallen in places and the mistletoe is on the floor. Outside, the cigarette and roach ends are wet; the cars are parked slightly out of kilter and the front garden hedges have dents in them.
The carpets are swept; the fireplaces are clean and laid, and the horses are groomed. Dawn is still the best kisser and Lily has learnt from her. The footsteps in the snow all lead to the back door while the ones at the front fade, along with the carriage tracks. There will be a new baby in September; it will resemble the master of the house but not the mistress. There will be another, born to the mistress; it will look different to its 'siblings'; the children in the house.
The goose is picked clean and broken for the pot, and the pickles now put away and the orange peel saved. The fire is sparking and water is warming. The doorstep has fresh mud on it and the smell of cattle and milk is rife. It mixes with baking bread. The house is awake and the fields and the forest wait.
No matter how you live or lived, it is all done now; finished except for the most hardy of celebrants and the faithful; for them there are five more days. But it is a new year for most of the world anyway. The trees are shedding their needles and most will be removed because we need to relentlessly move on. Work schedules start again for many people tomorrow and activities will be curtailed to meet bedtimes. The shops are open, though not for so many hours as tomorrow or yesterday. It is push, push, push, but no-one really notices or cares any more.
I didn't get drunk last night; I went to bed, hoping that the New Year cheer did not spill into my home with raucous shouts and clamour. I have things to do but must tread carefully around the sensibilities of my neighbours. I am keen to dig my garden and repair my bicycles. I am keen to deep-clean my home and study more densely. I am keen to be keen. I know that I am fuelled by caffeine and my fervour will fade; it is temporary and can be plotted like a bell curve throughout the day.
Today will be spent looking at the shreds and tatters I left myself yesterday. Years of learning needs to be reassessed and priorities laid down with principles addressed. Preparation needs to be done for the coming year. I didn't leave any 'startings' last year. There are only 'leavings'; embers and no tinder. There are no pickles in my cupboard this Winter; I did not engage with preservation or preparation; only boorish eating and drinking, but not for pleasure; for fuel. There is a starkness that needs to be filled, and colours need to be added to banality and routine. Reflection needs to become action. Memory needs to become curiousity, and comfort needs to become movement.
I have a spark.