It’s sad this evening. It’s that time of year when we all feel sad. Even though the moon is waxing, the nights are getting darker and darker. Before long the clocks change, and we all start coming together in order to burn things and go “ooooh!”
I’m back down in Brighton, sitting with Mao, our last evening together. He’s off back to his family tomorrow up near Reading. I am going to drive him, and Lou is coming. He senses there’s upheaval in the air. The mood is fractious, the dark is closing in, and this small fluffy calm and kind lockdown companion is going on a journey tomorrow back to a woman and a little girl who love him very much, and out of our lives.
He’s old. I’m glad I can return him in good health. When he came in April from the expensive cattery he was heavy and covered in tangles. He’s moving better now and his tangles are gone. I’ll miss his little pantaloons and his enormous eyes and his twitching tiny mouth. As I write he’s staring up at me and occasionally spasming like a pirate. He’s a comfort. First Pickle and now Mao. I’m liking how these little creatures seem to be finding their way into and then out of my life. But the ending is always sad.
The job didn’t land and so we go round again. Dammit. It means I can shave the ‘tache off – although I was growing strangely fond of it. Perhaps I’ll keep it awhile. I got a bit spun out by it and ended up being later down to Brighton than planned, so I arrived to get hauled out for thoughtless tardiness. Lou is working this evening. She had made pie for us both. I’m an oaf. She had her half on her own hours ago. I’m heating up mine now and is that rebuke I see in Mao’s eyes, or am I just projecting?
Outside, in the sad darkness, Brighton is slowly filling up with garbage. The bin strike is still ongoing. Every street corner now is loaded up with rubbish. Some private firms have been dealing with the worst areas in the city centre, trying to cut back on rats and stench. But out near Lou some of the piles are getting out of hand. Bags blown into the street and hit by cars mean that down the seafront now there is a liberal coating of plastic just waiting to be swept by the wind onto beaches and into the sea. Fifty mile an hour winds predicted for tonight promise that the area will be a total mess tomorrow, and more of our poison will go into the sea. It’s mostly packaging. It’s ALL packaging. And it’s vile. Too many people, too much stuff, too thoughtless, too tied to convenience. Yuk.
AlBarclay 