Three more weeks. Three of the bastards. Three And yet, and yet, what should it matter when every unending hour is uncountable? When the only purpose of every second is to serve as the timer for the relentless tick of the clock?* Let alone the days, let alone the weeks.
And yet, and yet.
We promise we will go back to cleaning reviews again, we have a new roomba (adore it), a new dishwasher (loathe it with an intensity which genuinely frightens us. If the designers were in reach as opposed to in China..). “May you live in interesting times” goes the old Chinese curse. And these times are too interesting for 6000 word musings about Domestos or peans to rinse aid.
How can something so interesting – such as the end of the world – be so fucking boring though? That’s what disaster movies never teach us, that, as economies collapse like smug sandcastles against a tsunami, we would simultaneously be catapulted into a minor Philip Larkin poem. That as we open another shit email from some company we bought a t-shirt off three years ago, which starts ‘the one thing we can say is in these difficult times we’re right here with you’, simultaneously we get a frisson of pleasure and and of hatred at the pleasure. Our last three days of mandated exercises have been eastwards, westwards and north of our home and today we get to walk south – the best direction of all? Why should we take joy in that.
And yet, and yet we do.
Mah, this is all self indulgent woe. So pretentious its postentious. The sun will rise, we shall write of washing up liquid again. The cherry blossom shall fall.
*We have a fabulous story about time. We shall post it on here tomorrow. It has to be said, though, it is too good for here.