The decision to not write being harder than the decision to write, I sit at the desk.
Beautiful summery evening is fading here, the plants atop the piano still have warm leaves. What growth the last week has seen! My citrus threatens twenty new leaves, twice as many as it has already. A tender spear, fresh with buds, has risen from the centre of my venus fly trap. The spider plant continues to throw out endless shoots and trailers. In the yard, the patch of soil bordered by bricks that I turned over in the winter is sprouting.
The broken house is becoming fixed at last. A threatening letter did the work it seems; the letting agency did not take kindly to our offer of legal action and environmental health inspections. So the broken tap and leaky ceiling and collapsed gate and over-icing freezer and damp patches may have seen their final days.
I leave soon anyway, regardless, and I am slightly guilty of rocking the boat for the remaining tenants, my good friends Ben and Richard. I leave them at an awkward juncture between an unwanted upheaval and a series of negotiated repairs with our demanding, militarised new tenancy officer.
What total boredom it must be to read this. I now resolve to write first thing, every day. At this time of night nothing seems relevant. Tomorrow is too far away, there is nothing left to hope for in this evening, and the consequences of today’s minor events are not even worth repeating.