Sunday

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Strange, Anna, is it not: I get my best ideas early in the morning, and you get your best ideas late at night.

So here I am, out of a warm bed and sitting with a cup of tea, typing away.

I found some stuff I had written 17 years ago... I will print some of it, heavily edited of course. But that is for another time.

There's something about the atmosphere of a Sunday, don't you think. It feels Sundayish. I bet elephants in the African bush wake up and say... Another Sunday... and bugger-all to do. 

But we shall not adopt the negative attitude of the African elephant. We shall find something to do. Even though I have been as low as... something that's very low, I shall make an effort. Sometimes it's best not to make an effort, and sometimes it is. The trick is to know the difference.

It's no good saying: well, those poor sods in Syria are worse off than me. It doesn't work like that. But how does it work? That is the question.

When I was a lad I would go out on my bike on Sunday, with some pals (we didn't have mates in those days). Sometimes we would do a hundred miles in the day; we'd either go north or south. North was to the Trough of Bowland; south was Wales. I think I preferred south. Although if you went north it was pretty much downhill coming back.

A bike meant freedom then. It still does. 

Freedom is important, don't you think?

If I have freedom in my love
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.

Richard Lovelace wrote that, Anna, in a poem called: To Althea, from Prison.

Sometimes you can say something in a poem that you can't say any other way.

So...

I'm going to get my breakfast,
While you lie asleep in bed;
When you get up you can get your own -
'Cos I'll be in the shed.

(actually I'll be out, sniffing the salty air)

I've not had any really good ideas this morning - but you wait until tomorrow!



George