Bomb Shell

It’s cold in Hampstead and since I’m just snakesitting for Mel, I’m not about to put the heating on. So I’m wrapped up in jumpers having herbal tea and, for the first time in a while, wishing that I was having a good long glass of fine dry red wine. A Chateauneuf perhaps. Which I shall drink python-scarved as I watch the city darken from the hill. Tea will have to do.

I’ve been happy bear and murdery panda and sexy cat all day again. There’s nothing like being cheerful to lighten the mood. And my mood needed lightening. I woke up under the weather.

You know that yearning feeling? I had that. I kept on saying “oh I just wish …” before realising that there was nothing specific that I wished for. I was experiencing a feeling of huge absence. I wasn’t really yearning for anything specific. But I was yearning for it desperately as the rain battered down. Yearning as the wind over the river crashed into the windows and forced flurries through the gaps and into my garret. Yearning as the absence of Proserpine started to make its impact felt in this world.

Perhaps partly it was indeed a yearning for the spring. Partly too for a world less cruel, less smug, less fearful, less righteous, less aggrieved. A kinder world. Also in there, a yearning for those who have gone. A yearning to be free of money worries. All these huge yearnings, all wrapped up in the cold, all packed into my busy head.

So I put another head on. Three other heads. And I danced and sprawled and played with strangers and it was lovely and I can remember the yearning now as the dark closes in, but it no longer lives in my gut.

But I’m feeling spent. Worked out. Tired out. Ready for bed. So I’ll play with this friendly snake for a little while and then just put the light out and hope for better weather on the morrow.

Addendum: I was so knackered I forgot to schedule.

Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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