In a spectacular piece of hubris I have allowed myself to quietly believe for years that the cold waits until after my birthday.
Despite the fact it was already pretty cold on my birthday – a fact that I was determined to overlook and downplay – it’s brass monkeys today so I’m calling a win for my own false sense of cosmic significance. I wouldn’t want to be on the Heath tonight in this. I’ve spent the last half an hour reattaching my smart thermostat as I might treat myself to a little bit of central heating, humbug.
It was lovely this morning though up there on the Heath. Lou and I had a little stroll.
The lack of booze helped me remember that the days start swapping over now and mornings become all important. In summer it’s all about the evenings, the low light through the trees, the crickets, warmth. In winter it’s the mornings, then evening pools of artificial light spilling through windows into cold night. By noon the best of the day is gone, particularly when they add an hour and make the dark come at 3pm – and that’s only a month away. It’s time to shift my body clock.
Darkness is closing in, as is the global fist of this pandemic. Where can we go? There are only 8 countries without their borders closed in some way. I thought of going home to The Isle of Man, but there’s no way they’ll let me get on the ferry. I even considered going back to Jersey as there’s stuff I need to do there plus it’s the island of my birth and my longing. I’d have to quarantine for two weeks in both directions if I went there, which would be crap and expensive as I haven’t got a roof to put over my head anymore.
So I’ll stay here, in London, and keep my head down. I’ve got a pretty sweet situation living between two properties until I can vacate this one and turn it into money. I’m still waiting on Kitcat to finally leave Chelsea so I can properly rationalise all the remaining stuff in this flat and reduce reduce reduce and throw the doors wide open onto empty streets and another fucking lockdown and no tenants and no industry earnings to pay council tax and service charge and Rishi tanking us to 20% fuckkitt.
Kitcat thought she’d leave this morning but she’s changed her mind now. She’s leaving tomorrow at noon, allegedly. She won’t make it to Glasgow before late even if they try to onebomb it but I’m not her keeper. She can do what she likes. It’s not me behind the wheel anymore and I feel pretty relieved about that. I’ll help her pack the van. Then I can just flounce around the place naked tomorrow morning. Or maybe be in a sunny park watching the live Saturday morning auction at Tennant’s and hoping for good prices while soaking up the vitamin D from the winter sun. Fully clothed. Not that much vitamin D. I’m already in enough trouble with the rozzas from the insurance cock up.
I’m used to uncertainty. But it’s never easy not knowing what the hell’s going to happen next. I’m in a good position here with my choice of roof and my friendly Hampstead snake. The Nissan’s over any day now – I should check tax expiry to make sure I’m not pulled over again. That’s the last thing I need. I’m have to move it on.
It’s quite hard to think past kitcat leaving right now with every inch of space in the flat either filled with her stuff in boxes or with mine. Tomorrow is a brighter day. So long as I get up in the morning.
Enjoy the sunshine if you can find it, lovelies. This is Friday night sober Al checking into his camomile tea.