Something Missing

27.03.15 (Day 459)


Today is day seventeen of living in the new place. For the most part, I love it but there are some things I miss.

There are practical luxuries which I can live without, specifically an internet connection. I’ve bought a bolt-on data package for my mobile, which I’m using as a hot spot and it’s a workaround. I can upload the blog, post writing to whomever requires it, keep in touch by email and social networking and other essential things. I can’t play many online games, nor can I download TV programmes and movies like I used to but I can live without that.

With everything unpacked and arranged in order, I’ve realised that I’m missing quite a few books, CDs and DVDs but I did grant Danielle permission to keep any of mine which she coveted. By prior arrangement, she got the Richard Digance oil paintings and a couple of book cases but everything else I have here. My two prize possessions are in place: the signed copy of Diamond Dogs by David Bowie is hanging on the wall and the hi-fi is set up, working as beautifully as it once did. Thanks to my mate Disco Dave, the CD player which lay broken for two years is repaired. Once the whole system is warmed up, it sounds like a dream: no need for volume; it just produces rich, clear sound. And it should as the whole thing was originally meant to cost two and a half grand.

We were missing guests in the flat because the owners were reluctant to have relative strangers up here. They run the office from the flat but with an agreement to keep visitors away from that area, guests are now permitted. Those who have visited so far have all commented with varying degrees of enthusiasm that the music system does indeed sound good and that you can appreciate speakers which cost three hundred quid each when you hear them. Only four of mine have been upstairs so far: two of my best mates, Meg and Nettie; my sister Courtney and my eldest adopted daughter, the fold-up one. They’ve all commented on how very me this little place is. Because it is.

Bringing guests upstairs is far cheaper than meeting them in the bar but my own self-imposed rule is only one or two visitors at a time, so that I may be allowed to get on with things I have to do, such as writing my second novel. But I do wonder whether there’s a point in having people up in my home if I’m not going to be a particularly good host while I work. Therefore I feel obliged to pay them attention up here, or to meet them in the bar and later return upstairs to try to get on with things. I’ve been trying for the best part of a week but the constant stream of visitors has meant that I’m unable to get on with what I would like to. The only exception is my aforementioned fold-up daughter who earned her nickname because she can actually be folded up and stored in a corner, quite happy to get on with anything she has to and simply be with me while I get on with whatever it is I need to do. So tonight, after a week of not being able to get on, I’m getting on with some writing, namely a magazine article and that second novel.

Apart from a dance show which I’m hoping to get to tomorrow if I can be allowed to finish a writing project and hit a deadline, I plan a quiet weekend. Tomorrow I shall procure the component parts of bacon sandwiches and the Saturday Guardian and once I’m finished in the bar, I shall wallow and eat. This sedentary practice will be continued on Sunday with The Observer. I have no planned visitors apart from the eldest daughter and she can be folded up and given a newspaper to read. Being a chip off the old block, she’s a clever kid and reads the same newspapers as me.

So with thoughts recorded and mind therefore cleared, I’m ready to embark on the weekend. There’s one other thing missing from here though: someone I’ve grown very close to, get on brilliantly with and have a laugh with. I also have a falling feeling when she’s around. Alas she has gone home and isn’t due back until next Wednesday. I miss my little friend and my number one little girl – her words – in the pub.

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