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I ought to tell you about my perfect days. These are far from every day, but they come along from time to time, and they go something like this.
In the morning, I write. “Dear Sir, Following your recent Lottery win, I wonder if I might apprise you of my dire financial situation and ask earnestly if you could see your way …”
That sort of thing. Sometimes, of course, I write newspaper columns, a responsible duty in which I am charged with the moral instruction of the nation. Usually, however, I fear the nation just titters.
Sometimes, I work on books. I’ve completed two or three now, but never do anything with them. Basically, I don’t know want other people to read them, and I can see how that might be problematic. Perhaps they’ll be published posthumously, which will frankly be a fat lot of good.
But I do enjoy a good scribble. I forget all my worries and become peculiarly focused when I start to compose. Afterwards, I sit for a while, decomposing, before having some lunch (latterly, this has been pakora; how bizarre is that? I bought a job-lot of it at the Co-op and haven’t known what to do with it).
After lunch, on a perfect day, I’ll go out and garden, if it’s quiet, and that’s often when I’m at my happiest. True, it can feel like a chore, but it’s good to be oot and, without gyms at the moment, at least it’s some sort of exercise.
Then, I’ll go oot to the forest or the Fairy Glen or the Secret Beach. They’re all within walking distance and, without tourists, certainly in the forest (attached to a visitor attraction), I’ll generally encounter only one or two other souls.
It’s bliss to lie down on a rock on a lonely shore. I don’t know which I like watching more: the endless patterns of the sea, or the first series of Star Trek.
Back home, at teatime, I’ll have a small vat of whisky, or perchance a gargantuan G&T, and listen to music on my new wireless headphones.
Then, having summoned enough Dutch courage to face my cooking, I’ll waddle through to the kitchen, bin all the healthy bags of salad that have turned to unused mush past their sell-by date, and eat something comforting in generous quantities.
After that, with a bag of chocolate raisins, or perchance a cheeky wee ice cream, I’ll watch the first series of Star Trek or something similarly uplifting.
Oddly enough, this reminds me of another brief but happy period in my life, where I took a hiatus from journalism.
In the morning I’d pursue my own writing projects, in the afternoon work on my allotment, and in the evening sort letters for the Royal Mail, where I made many good friends.
I was poor but contented. Twice (not counting this present period), I’ve been thus contented, but ambition or need of money lured me away, usually with disastrous consequences.
At present, I’d say my days are mixed. The lockdown hasn’t changed my life much – I’m well used to cabin fever – but, all the same, I feel the old restlessness growing in me again. Perhaps I should resist it. Or perhaps I should go where no Rab has gone before.
