Sinister: In the room the women come and go, talking of Michaelangelo.

[Ruvi Simmons]

Is it a rather pitiful admission that I am sitting at my desk doing nothing
but waiting and hoping for some e-mail to arrive and amuse me? I was doing
some sewing (is that any better?), but it is all done, and I am, let me be
frank, bored to death. My flatmate is watching a film upstairs, so I can't
go in the living room, my brother is asleep, and I have nothing to do. I
suppose I could skulk around in the hallway, but it isn't a very interesting
place after a while - just a lot of shoes, really, although some of them are
quite nice. I wish, in fact, that the War was still on. It may have been
bloody, but at least it provided some distraction. I can understand why all
the crones on the buses ramble about the good old days. At least then they
could busy themselves buying extra chocolate rations from spivs, flirt with
American soldiers, draw seams on their legs with pencils and sing songs.
They were young, with pretty rosy cheeks and dainty waists. Or even squidgy
waists, since either can be beautiful. Now they just buy beige jackets or
fluffy hats and moan about timetables. I yearn for even that distraction,
but I don't have a bus schedule.

Perhaps, however, I am merely being self-indulgent. In fact, there is no
perhaps about it. I live in a house full of books and in a world full of
things to see, hear, touch and smell. I should continue reading The House at
Pooh Corner, which I am re-acquainting myself with. Reading it as an adult
has brought about no change in my perspective on the book. It is as
wonderful, funny and gentle
as when I was 6. Perhaps the only difference now is that reading it serves
more as a reminder of how important it is to remain ever-curious, optimistic
and warm-hearted, something I used to take for granted. I particularly like
the fact that Pooh and Piglet both hug Christopher Robin whenever they meet
him. I wish I would be hugged by fat bears and clever but cowardly little
piglets, but then I suppose, if I close my eyes and wish hard enough, my
imagination may just make it so.

It has been a long time since I indulged in platitudes regarding the
weather, and there may well have been a time when I would boast that it
would never happen again, but I can't help commenting on the atrocious
conditions that have descended upon London. If there is any good time to
discuss the weather, let it be an 3.20am, alone, in a bedroom. I have been
feeling quite sorry for the blossoms, daffodils and crocuses that began to
blossom a few weeks ago, when the weather was warmer, and have since been
subjected to such harsh winds and rain. The poor things looking so colourful
and vibrant, bringing their much needed relief from the winter, only to be
assaulted by the capricious English climate! Can I indulge in a little bit
of melodrama, please? The silence I shall take to mean consent...O cruel
Fate, that can attack the frailest emissary of Spring's impending arrival,
assault a gentle flower with your barbed teeth and claws, and never shed a
single tear!

Maybe A. A. Milne should be consulted on the matter:
"I shouldn't be surprised if it didn't hail a good deal tomorrow," Eeyore
was saying...
    "There's Pooh!" said Christopher Robin, who didn't much mind what it di
to-morrow, as long as he was out in it.

Since that is good advice, I think I shall adopt it, if only for a day,
after which my memory of events will become hazier and I will become liable
to fall prey to other influences. But we shall forget that for the time
being. I'm sure the blossoms, daffodils and crocuses have seen worse weather
in the course of their existence on earth, and they have survived as,
indeed, I have as well. So I will trust in their ability (and mine) to
endure, and, I think, go and have a cup of tea. That is undoubtedly good for
boredom; it has certainly fortified England from tedium over the past 400
years.

Ruvi.





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