I’ve been sorting plates and saucers and finally watching Fleabag. It’s hard to do the two things simultaneously as Fleabag frequently pulls everything so tight that you have to give it your full attention. I’m glad it lives up to the hype, for me at least. I saw it scratched as the one woman show and it was great, but I’ve delayed watching the TV series for that old familiar reason of “I want to give this my full attention.” For some reason, surrounded by boxes of plates, I felt that my full attention would be available today. It was, but just for Fleabag. The plates aren’t done. Admittedly it’s a huge job. I’ll get it done but I’m going to have to get better at bulk selling, throwing stuff out and making ill informed decisions quickly instead of well informed decisions slowly.
I’ve put a lot of stuff up into the attic for #later. But the attic has been a convenient oubliette for years and I don’t want to fill it even fuller and then leave it for decades. Things need to be steadily leaving the flat. Right now they’re still steadily coming in as I empty the storage onto my living room floor.
With typical understatement Brian tells me “it’s not my favourite thing you’ve done, this antiques thing.” The living room is full of boxes. All the surfaces have things on them. Tomorrow afternoon I’ll suddenly have to box this week’s eBay haul for postage so some things will go. But until I know about bulk postage discounts etc it’s all just sitting on the surfaces waiting to be packed. Periodically I have to take a photo of one of the pieces and send it to the person who wants very specific details about condition. There are many versions of that person, despite my exhaustive photographs. I think they really just want satisfaction I’m a real account.
I’m writing this from a hot bath with piano music and candles. I’ve been winding myself up all day, and Fleabag is a tough watch in terms of empathy so I’m winding myself down. After this I’m going to finish the last two episodes and still manage an early bed I hope. Tomorrow I’m off to Oxford briefly, then more plates. I’m keeping the fire burning under this work because it has to be done constantly and if I get an acting gig out of town then a lot of stuff will either go into storage or crammed into the attic, so better to deal with it now before that comes in. So it’s good that I’ve allowed myself a little plinky plonky candlelit bath. Although I’m using it to write this rather than relax . Permission to stop.
I lay and looked at shadows for a while. I don’t do that enough, looking at nothing in particular with brain untethered. It’s always a screen or a face or a cat or a road or a plate. It’s nice. People used to do it for days but now we have the world in our pocket. Sometimes it’s worth remembering that watching random things like shadows in candlelight or clouds and sky or running water or living fire – watching those things can be as powerful and fulfilling as watching curated things like YouTube and David Attenborough and Fleabag.
But Fleabag is brilliant. She writes everybody so well. I’ve got so many points of resonance. Glorious. I’m going to watch the end of it now and I’ll be sad it’s over.