[idyll] blank space in the diary

Was it Michael Palin who, in the intro to a Ripping Yarns episode, was standing on a craggy precipice, dressed in G.K. Chesterton’s hat and cape and gripping a swordstick, [mine always contained Drambuie], intoning: “Was it G.K Chesterton who said …?”

Similarly, was it P.G. Wodehouse’s The Butler's Cross who, celebrating the onset of spring, wrote something along the lines of:

It was one of those jolly, peaceful mornings that make a fellow wish he'd got a soul or something ... ?

That’s how I feel this early afternoon with the day still full of promise, the sun almost blazing and not the remotest sign of the onset of the Great Grey Drabness.

That’s only part of it.

I went in to the uni just now, wasting 200 roubles in the process, only to find the place devoid of human life. Finally managed to ferret out a ferrety looking young blonde who informed me that today was a holiday.

Ah, I see. Nobody bothered to tell me. Yes, she added – they’re all at a conference. Conference, I thought? Conference = boredom and really dire discomfort.

Saying nothing and pulling my cap down over my eyes, a cunning disguise for one who stands out in this city somewhat like a beacon, I rapidly shuffled out and caught a car home.

So that’s why I’m here, sitting on my balcony in my green garden chair, small table to the left with chocolate and Indian Spice tea [but not in that order] and writing to you.

The temperature is – let me see – a balmy nine degrees and the warm tea is … warming. Would that life could always be so idyllic.