Tuesday, August 11, 2009
the day hillary stared at my hat
That’s about as close as I could get. Without being a stalker.
It must be said though, that Hillary did like my hat.
How do I know this:
1) She made direct eye contact with it during the middle of her speech
2) How could she not like it? It’s all red and stuff. And it stuck out of the audience, so she even stared at it during special vernacular about agriculture in Africa.
She’s an intelligent bird you know. Her speech about women and the other promises about inter-trade relations between South Africa and the US, was very articulate and well-though out. On her part, she knows the intricacies of each and every topic she covered – from politics to solutions, and frankly, she has my respect.
Besides, she just looked cool. She cracked jokes about her husband having to get her a credit card in the 70s even when she was earning more money than him. ‘Woman are doing it for themselves,’ was the general sentiment of her speech, and she spoke very well.
Happy Women’s Day, ladies.
I went out on Friday into the deep vortex that is Parkhurst, in my beret, to meet up with Dockers and company for a drink. Sat drinking a glass of wine opposite Espresso, thinking, ‘Fuck that place looks intimidating.’
I was wearing a beret, so perhaps the blonde tidal wave was more imminent in my mind. I got sat next to someone, once there, who came off as hellishly intense, to the point where I was leaning farther and farther back, and he was leaning more forward. Pleasant, except I’m just not ready, hibernation-wise, for intense talks with total strangers, so decided then and there:
‘Fine if I’m going to leave a social situation before 11pm, I might as well do something with my time.’
So I went home, and good God, started my next book.
I’ve been warming up to the idea, slowly but surely, perhaps because vast amounts of hibernation will do that to you, and also because I am sick of lying around in limbo, waiting for something to happen.
So, with the idea of Enid Blyton’s life as my imagery,(she became an agoraphobic recluse, sitting day-in, day-out, writing fantasy children’s stories with lead characters called Dick and Fanny, from an armchair, blanket about her legs, no doubt a cat or two within close proximity, and tapped away on a typewriter for the rest of her existence. Every now and then she’d venture out and give her children a jolly good hiding, then retire back to her little cave of faraway trees and flying chairs.)
I decided that I don’t, in fact, want to be anything like Enid Blyton, at all, however, I will allow myself the small pleasure of loud music on in the background and a glass of Diemers while I tap away.
At least I’ll have an excuse now when I leave something: even if the book takes me another 3 years, I can always go home, ‘to finish writing a chapter.’
Did spend a wonderful day on Saturday, kicking back with a bunch of boys. Nice change. One even took his shirt off.
Sitting about in the sun, around a whole bunch of low admin men. Then a spot of rugby, then catering for dinner guests.
Done, mind you, with much enthusiasm – the sun is out again and I’m feeling warm enough now to serve canapés on my balcony.
Took my computer to a café in Parkhurst yesterday and grafted for three hours on the book. I just stuffed my iPod into my ears and typed a full two chapters while drinking coffee, jotting shit down into my notebook, and drinking up the sun. In a hat of course.
Felt very French and ridiculously content.
Enid Blyton didn’t care much for Vitamin D, I gather, so at least we’re different like that.
Also I don’t write about flying chairs so much.