OK. Faffing about is not a new thing. Basically, we have now reached the second half of the year, so I am catching up with myself and starting again with a clean slate. This is week 26 of 52, according to the useful website I checked on. Useful particularly to visitors from other planets a different distance from the sun, and who might not know we operate on a 52 week year.
I the last few weeks I have not been dead, by the way, in case that is the conclusion you leapt to. My older son thought this when he was 4 and I was late picking him up from school. There he stood in his little duffle coat, lip trembling, with the teacher saying. 'I'm sure mammy's just on her way!' (this was Tyneside). When I finally came panting across the playground he whispered, 'I thought you were dead, mummy.' The only possible explanation! She is so reliable, what else could account for it? That she forgot?
I've been busy, that's all. Picking the same son up from Durham, as it happens, which for me is an overnight trip, because I need a lie down after driving all the way up the A1(M). Or the M1, if I'm not concentrating at the crucial junction. Then we've had visitors from Australia, which meant a sudden burst of housework. I didn't clean the shower, because they're short-sighted--useful tip there for any lazy slobs. And I've been writing a novel. More on that later.
However, I have done a new thing this week, which was to recycle some clothes at the supermarket recycling point. Normally I stagger into a charity shop with them, saying 'Here, have them all back!' The problem with this is the thought that the staff will know what kind of crap you have tried to fob them off with, and next time you go in they'll nudge one another and say, 'There she is! The one that donated a pair of knackered Clarke's school lace ups, and clerical shirt with the sleeves falling off!'
Instead, you stick the bagged up clothes anonymously in the maw of the big skip, raise the handle, hear them thud into the depths, then walk away. Don't know why I've never done it before. I've recycled glass and paper, but not clothes. At Morrisons in Lichfield there is a choice between Marie Curie and Sally Army. I chose the Sally Army, but in a spirit of fairness I'll donate to the other one next time. I feel good about this. Until now the only thought I can recall having about these donation points was to wonder if you could dispose of a dismembered body in them.
About this blog
This is a window into the weird world of Anglicanism, as experienced on a Cathedral Close. Has anything much happened since Trollope's Barchester Chronicles? You will still see the 'canon in residence' hurrying across to choral Evensong, robes flapping, as the late bell chimes. But look carefully and you will notice he is checking the football score on his iPhone as he runs. This is also a writer's blog. It charts the agony and ecstasy of the novelist's life. And it's a fighter's blog. It charts the agony and ecstasy of the judo mat. Well, the agony, anyway.