blogging from out-and-about (again)

I must just tell you that it's very noisy here - police car sirens, traffic in general, other people in the coffee shop (yes, more annoying étrangers) (actually, it's not so much the people, more their accents) (why oh why does this bother me so?), to name but a few disturbances of my petit sojourn au extérieur. . . also the weather is very changeable - within seconds it goes from hot and sunny and balmy (I take off my cardigan and order a coke with lots of ice) to windy and nippy (I put the cardigan on again and try and attract the waiter's attention to bring me another coffee) (it's such a hard life, eh) (altho I do not expect any pity whatsoever!!)
so, a little more about the cafe, just to put you in the picture. . . from here I can see bay trees and rosemary plants in the adjoining restaurant (I don't think they'd distract an outside diner from the traffic, double red lines and tarmac of the South Circular - but at least someone's tried); a large blue and orange sign reading "Budget" (which I'm sure is useful if you want to hire a car, but it spoils my outlook); and a banner proclaiming "Virgin Active" (quite clearly not aimed at my good self, seeing as I am neither) (*sigh* those were the days, dear reader - youth is wasted on the young, is it not?)
here the front boundary of the place is planted on one side with some kind of weed (not dandelion, but it has yellow flowers and is quite pretty) and trays of six or seven types of lettuce on the other (I think the weeds are meant to reinforce the cafe's green credentials, I hope the lettuce - with its proximity to the traffic fumes - will not end up in someone's salad); the awning flaps about in the breeze and blocks out the sun which would otherwise be shining down on me, in between being itself blocked out by the clouds which are scudding across the early summer sky (is it summer in June, or merely late spring? I never know if summer comprises June, July and August or July, August and September) (but weird, eh, that the longest day of the year approaches and I haven't yet had one opportunity to avail myself of the bonus long well lit evenings)
before my arrival I purchased a newspaper just in case the netbook's battery gives out, or the internet connection wouldn't connect; it remains in my bag and will probably stay there until it ends up in the recycling - how much of the bulk that is a Sunday paper do you ever manage to get thru?); I also brought along The Lacuna, which I finished last night
there was one passage in almost the final section which I marked by turning over a page corner: having written the other day of my piece of "knitted fabric" which was unravelling and ripped to shreds, I then read a similar analogy in The Lacuna (my copy purchased before it won the award, published before the cover will be emblazoned to that effect), so page 613 in my book, the narrator describes "knitting away at the front of the long knotted scarf that will have to be unraveled at the back"

ho hum

is there such a thing as an original thought anymore? I know I've touched on that topic before, but the notion returns time and again like a piece of driftwood bobbing up and down on a shore on the incoming and outgoing tides; not that I'm particuarly bothered, despite it coming to my attention so frequently the same thoughts spoken by a different voice still have their own degree of uniqueness, don't they?


Dave said...

It's very quiet here in my close. No passing traffic, just the calls of birds in the trees disturbing the peace as i sit in my arbour eating strawberries.

Now do you see why i don't want to live in a city?

Christopher said...

Thank you for this very lively stream of consciousness. My immediate reaction is to wonder, thinking round your various questions, if, given that virginity is wasted on the old, it's more probable that virginity of thought will come with age.

Also rosemary has a particular significance for me that I won't bore you with just now, but I was very glad to be reminded of it ('There's rosemary: that's for remembrance') and I may write a post about it in due course.

We don't have Sunday papers. I wnder if you would find Mary-Kay Wilmers' The Eittighons (sp?) an interesting complement to The Lacuna?

Mel said...

Coffee this evening is in a yellow cup:

"Sometimes I wake up grumpy....
Sometimes I let her sleep in."

Courtesy of himself.
Had I made it--whitecup woulda happened as I'm still on a quest!


Mel said...

Horatio Hamster sleeps.


I, Like The View said...

Mel ah, but he is on your time or my time?!

still no just right white cup? Himself has a sense of humour, eh

it's weird how the cup has to be just right, isn't it - I have a shelf full of them but still search to find the one I fancy having my drink from. . .

Christopher I'll take at a look at your recommendation, thank you (I'm so gutted to have finished Lacuna, that I've started reading it again)

Dave I've always understood why you don't want to live in a city

obviously, my road isn't quite as noisy as the main street - I can even hear bird song

I totally understand why people love living in the countryside

Mel said...

Yup...this mornin' it's the oversized ('just right' in my world!) whitecup with Micky Mouse on it. :-)

Yup....goobery thingies galore! LOL

Mel said...

I don't think I could publish anything while I was out and about--leastwise nothing of the caliber you've managed.

Too much stimulus, too many 'oh LOOK....a chicken!' moments, no doubt.

<-- slight issue with 'focus'