I would wake very early – before the day’s lustre had been granted proper time to enter through the blinds, leaving only those silver traces creeping slantwise from where the sun would make its steady ascent behind the hill adjacent to my house – and boil an egg. After four minutes, I would proceed to break it open, delving bread that I had toasted in the interim into its golden core. Being a slow eater, I would enjoy this occupation for twenty-eight minutes. Then, I would begin to write.
Of course, one does not simply begin to write: there is a touch more preparation required than that. It would take approximately eighteen minutes to clear my mind, during which time I would hum a marching ditty in its entirety nine times: ‘The Quartermaster’s Store’ most often asserted itself. This had been known to cause some small problems in the past, what with four of my stories from this period solely concerning the – I might add, quite fascinating – lives that quartermasters lead. Though if the marching ditty was hummed in proper fashion, my mind would be clear as a slate washed clean, and I would find myself ready to write about anything.
Inspiration might then be permitted to waft from my (now-primed) consciousness and onto the page in easy gusts for thirty-seven minutes, after which I would boil a second egg – hardboiled in this instance – accompanying it with a cup of tea, though no toast. The shell would best be broken by pressing it with firm and even pressure against my brow, before I would peel said shell from the rubbery albumen and devour the egg’s dichromatic flesh in three measured bites. I would then finish my tea.
The editing process would be pursued accordingly: one-hundred-and-seventy-two minutes would be dedicated to the revision of those rough nuggets that the morning’s afflatus had compelled into existence, and in these one-hundred-and-seventy-two minutes I would bring these nuggets up to a standard that even the most humble-minded would not blush at reporting to be “fucking amazing”. Seven minutes would concern revision of the prior day’s work.
Fifty-eight minutes would comprise what I refer to in polite circles as verborum fluxus. That is to say, this was a time when words would spray forth in unholy quantities and of wildly variable quality from my tippety-tappeting fingers until my colon litterarum was entirely void. At which point, I would cease all writerly activities and anticipate luncheon with a persistent and eager hankering while making my way into town.
It was on that grey afternoon of the twenty-eighth of March, 1993, that I found all eateries to be closed when I arrived. Owing to the fact that it was a Sunday, this may not come as much of a surprise to you, dear reader, however I can only describe my state as being one of total and utter confoundment. I knew quite well that Mrs Hallingworth’s café was to remain open throughout each Sunday afternoon for guests such as myself, who were by now in the daily habit of enjoying a large and nutritious luncheon of cherry tomatoes, cheshire cheese, lettuce leaves and brown bread served with ample latherings of mayonnaise and thickly cut rashers of back-bacon. But bang as I might, the door remained fast shut.
Writing a brief note – though I will admit, such a task was of some effort following the excesses of my pre-luncheon prolixity – I quietly slipped it through the slight gap left between the floor and the base of the door, a slight gap which had upon a number of occasions caused some consternation to the patrons of this establishment – and in this category I did include myself, though I bore the title with no great pride on that grey Sunday of 1993 – due to the fact that this slight gap was often wont to welcome in a great wind that would rush up the trouser-legs of whomsoever might be planted nearest the entryway, duly nithering one’s posterior. The note ran something to the effect of:
Mrs Hallingworth,
It is with some sadness that I pen these lines on this grey Sunday afternoon, for it has not gone unnoticed that your formerly steadfast establishment has faltered in upholding a certain duty that it has practiced admirably throughout the many preceding months and years: namely, in providing a fine and ample luncheon of cherry tomatoes, cheshire cheese, lettuce, brown bread, mayonnaise and thickly cut back-bacon rashers for gentlemen such as myself. I leave below my address and may well entertain the presumption that you might assemble such a luncheon as the one forementioned and bring it to my domicile upon reception of this note.
Godspeed,
Gilbert
Now, I will not pretend to you for a moment that such a note was well-advised. And I will not pretend that as I made my way home – the light draining from the scenery such that the shadows of the coniferous trees and holly bushes proliferated until all that remained were the grey silhouettes of those formerly verdant foliáge – I will not pretend to you that I did not feel some small modicum of regret for having left such a note. For it was fast becoming apparent that I had not visited the fine establishment of Mrs Hallingworth’s at an hour that might be described by any reasonable person as “lunchtime”. No, as I glanced back to see in the distance the sharp black protrusion of the church spire against the darkening horizon, I knew that the time at which I had paid my visit was in fact much closer to evening than afternoon.
There is no excuse for my behaviour. However, it would be entirely remiss of me to fail to mention that the twenty-eighth day of March, 1993, was in fact the last Sunday of the month, a day that those who have their almanacs effectively imbibed will know fair well marks the end of daylight savings. Now, again, I will not prostrate the minor fact of changing clocks as any form of vindication for my unprincipled behaviour that day, nor will I suggest that there was not some grave error on my part in waking later than I might normally have been expected to wake, daylight savings or no. Suffice to say, a number of problems compounded, some within my control and some without, and the result is a mess that is entirely my own.
And it has been quite the mess. I write this to you now with the due shame of an author who fails daily in his routine: no egg is softboiled first-thing, nor one hardboiled after. No marching ditty is hummed – or if it is, I have not the foggiest how many times I hum it. Certainly, there is none of the literary providence that once blessed those thirty-seven glorious minutes in the morn. An unabating stream of verborum fluxus remains my only familiar companion from those regimented times, combined with a newfound and inexplicable antiquation of diction that causes some degree of irritation amongst even the most patient of my peers. For fear of embarrassment, I have not returned to Mrs Hallingworth’s fine establishment. I now take luncheon on my own.
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Thanks to those of you who stuck that one out – and apologies to those who didn’t. As you may have noticed, it was not anything to do with my travels. Or to do with anything, for that matter. I think I’ll be updating this newsletter’s description.
A hodge-podge of recent snaps included below.
Louis
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