farm

Two characteristics stand out in this house, even now. I assume its shape and composition contribute to the strange noises in the night. Of course my apartment exhibits its fair share of creaks and crashes, but it takes a lot to compete with the city's constant white noise, and brick buildings don't subject us to gunshot bangs from the rafters. When the rest of the night is so still, listening to the house settling its creaky bones simply serves to unsettle the occupants.

After a lie-in, I spent the morning padding about the house in my pyjamas and my mother's slippers, mopping the floor and scraping dog hair off the sofa, while Dad mowed the lawn. Such is the pastoral lifestyle. Mum's back in hospital, after being finally strong-armed into calling up her nurse & describing her symptoms - fever & rigors coming & going over a period of 10 days. It appears she's finally reached a regularity of health complaints at which the "normal" bar has been lowered to near-drowning. It was actually a relief when the doctor diagnosed E.

Although I've had lots of fascinating trajectories on which to lapse lyrical over the last couple of years, the final step - the act of sitting down and writing - has been repelled, very much as two magnets' like poles drive each other away. On those rare occasions I've written something, re-reading it has been a similar trial. So instead of writing about complicated, thought-provoking topics, I've decided to resort to spewing forth whatever is whatever, much as if this were a real blog. The hope is that eventually I'll remember how to write.