another blue morning
Morning in les Cougieux.
Luckily I do not have a hangover because I have insisted on a new policy; that when we go out to dinner we decide in advance, rather than when both of us are completely sozzled, who is going to drive home along the windy roads. Needless to say it was me, but I am feeling smug now.
When Julian opens the shutters the light is dazzling and Manon and I both squint. It is half past nine and I have failed yet again to get up early enough to get the cats to the vet, to have Oscar’s pert furry balls chopped off, and Manon denied any possibility of motherhood. As a childless couple I think we are unconsciously resisting the joy of a litter of our own. Manana.
We sit over beetroot and carrot juice, mac to mac, our apples almost kissing. Oscar is obediently overseeing the email collection on Julian’s lap and suddenly his master's tears are falling into his fur. The weekly art-letter has come in with the story of a cold night, a dog, and going to the studio anyway. Julian is touched and he melts. It is in this open space that there is so much room for my love.
He soon spurs up again in a brief debate about galleries versus the internet. It is one of many we have been having recently, the most interesting being about what I would call soul, which he thinks of as a sort of plasticine from which we are all fashioned.
Oscar is acting distant towards me and I wonder if it is because I am always on tour. Is Julian just trying to make me feel better when he says it is only because my tits are too big for him to contemplate room on my lap.
It’s time for coffee. Pull that chrome gaggia lever and out it treacles. Mmmmmmmmmm………….
Luckily I do not have a hangover because I have insisted on a new policy; that when we go out to dinner we decide in advance, rather than when both of us are completely sozzled, who is going to drive home along the windy roads. Needless to say it was me, but I am feeling smug now.
When Julian opens the shutters the light is dazzling and Manon and I both squint. It is half past nine and I have failed yet again to get up early enough to get the cats to the vet, to have Oscar’s pert furry balls chopped off, and Manon denied any possibility of motherhood. As a childless couple I think we are unconsciously resisting the joy of a litter of our own. Manana.
We sit over beetroot and carrot juice, mac to mac, our apples almost kissing. Oscar is obediently overseeing the email collection on Julian’s lap and suddenly his master's tears are falling into his fur. The weekly art-letter has come in with the story of a cold night, a dog, and going to the studio anyway. Julian is touched and he melts. It is in this open space that there is so much room for my love.
He soon spurs up again in a brief debate about galleries versus the internet. It is one of many we have been having recently, the most interesting being about what I would call soul, which he thinks of as a sort of plasticine from which we are all fashioned.
Oscar is acting distant towards me and I wonder if it is because I am always on tour. Is Julian just trying to make me feel better when he says it is only because my tits are too big for him to contemplate room on my lap.
It’s time for coffee. Pull that chrome gaggia lever and out it treacles. Mmmmmmmmmm………….
posted by ruth at 10:21 AM
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