Summer what summer?

I’m suffering from Sundaynightcan’tbearsed-itis. Should be doing certain tasks to get ready for the week ahead, but ...I’ve been on the settee pointing the remote at the TV watching nothing in particular.

I would like to posit the opinion that I am suffering from Seasonally Adjusted Disorder. WTF, I hear you cry, in the summer? Absolutely. Our summer officially ended at the start of July and my neighbourhood is beginning to resemble the set for Kevin Costner’s Waterworld. If the leaves weren’t stubbornly hanging on to their trees I’d be convinced this was October.

The silver lining to this particularly persistent sky full of cloud is that if it’s raining I can’t cut my grass and this is A Good Thing. I have a similar attitude to cutting grass as I do to housework. I am now paying a cleaner...maybe I should find someone to pay to cut the lawn?

I was in Glasgow yesterday. Buchanan Street to be precise. For those of you who don’t know this is one of the busiest shopping thoroughfares in the UK outside of London. Looking down the length of the street from the top end all you can see is a monster mass of bobbing heads. I overheard a tour guide talking to a bunch of Italians. This woman had an astounding grasp of the obvious as she pointed down Buchanan Street in one direction saying...in this direction we have shops. She then pointed in the other direction and said...and in this direction we have shops.

I hope the Italians got their money back.

At the far end of the street sits the Royal Concert Hall. A man was singing on the steps in front of the hall to a gathering crowd. Man, he was good. Nessun Dorma et al were given an airing. His name was John Craig Innes and he calls himself the People’s Tenor. Apparently he goes round the country “bringing opera to the people” singing in shopping centres and the like. Certainly, the people of Glasgow enjoyed him yesterday, cos he sold a shitload of CDs.

I’m not happy with myself today. I’ve written very little in the last week. Work has been a tad draining and I find it difficult to sit in front of a laptop and write at the end of a work day. Enough with the sob story, dude. This coming week WILL be different. An hour a day can’t be too difficult can it?

Had a lazy afternoon with the wee fella. I planked myself in the bookshop and leafed through the latest Greg Iles while sipping a giant cappuccino. He read a Horrible History. As I used to work there a number of people came over to say hello. Which did not please my son.

- Eeesh, he says under his breath, you’re worse than a girl.
- I know a lot of people, son. I can’t ignore them.
- You’d say hello to Hitler if he walked in here.
- If Hitler walked in here I’d phone a TV station.
- See if someone got their throat cut, he asked after pausing for a beat, would there be a mess?

I’m not worried at how the conversation turned out. He has this thing about asking about nasty events and their consequences. For example...
- If I fell from that building would I die? Depends on what part of your body you land, I answer trying to think of a more gruesome reply. He is into gruesome these days. If you land on your head, I go on, you would die. If you land on your feet the force would push your legbones up through your ribcage and yes, you would die. Cool, says he.

- Would someone die if they lost their legs? If they get to the hospital in time, they might be able to stem the flow of blood, I answer running out of energy. Where gruesome is concerned I have my limits.

- If a man...he paused to think of something that might embarrass me. He gets a wee glint in his eyes...if a man had his penis cut off would he survive? Probably, I say. He might just wish he hadn’t.

Laters,
M