birch in November
Try as I might I can’t find anything good about November, except that it’s nearly over and hasn’t been too onerous a month this year. In fact, it’s been flying by; what happened to it, where did it go? There’s been barely enough time to indulge in proper misery and the trough of despond and I hardly touched sides, although I tried my best. (Any more cliché-d phrases and I shall make myself sick).
Misery and I are good friends, and sometimes I positively relish her. Still, I’m going to try and give her up, at least for a week. The fault for this decision lies with a friend I met in the village yesterday. We were standing in the middle of the roadway - we do that here in Valley’s End, cars frequently have to make their way around gossiping villagers - catching up. It was dark and dank and dismal and I was hoping she would join me in a moan and a whinge about . . . . well, anything really. I’m not fussed. But no, she said she had decided to find something to be pleased about in every day, little, unimportant things maybe, but something to cheer herself up. I had always thought of her as made of sterner stuff, stiff-upper-lip stuff, after all, she is a scientist, but there you are, this mania for ‘positive thinking’ can hit anyone at any time.
Alison was particularly chuffed yesterday because she had been making mayonnaise; the mayonnaise had promptly curdled and she was about to throw it out when she pulled herself up, addressed herself in a firm voice and set about uncurdling it. She succeeded and she has a jar of decent mayonnaise to show for it.
So, just to see what it feels like, I too am going to try to find a small pleasure in every day for one week. And shall report on success or failure here.
I do so hope I won’t regret this.