A journal of questionable quality

Friday, December 28, 2007

there it was

Nothing like it. Christmas I mean. Nothing like it at all.

This year we had the coolest Christmas for 400 years or something - maybe not 400 years but a lot of years. Rain has been hanging around, clouds scudding across the sky visible from the window here.

Took the bike out for a ride on Christmas Eve, a few kilometres to keep me going; several of them in my bare feet pushing the bike—managed a clean puncture from broken glass on lap one. Nice to see that the population still has no reserves about breaking glass all over the road. Possibly the very same people who complain about liquids packed in plastic.

Walking home in bare feet, a requirement because my shoes are complete with cleats and make walking a rather comical effort, gives me a chance to view the scenery I ride so fast past normally.  Great.

Repairs complete. Bike ready. Next two laps and I'm looking at a very slow puncture again. More glass perhaps. Manage to get the thing home, a better choice that walking it.

Another repair and it is warning enough—Christmas Eve needs to be removed from the riding calendar.

Christmas Day, and as they go it did. Slow, deliberate, and sleepy. It's not the turkey, we didn't have any, in fact we never had a lunch at all. Possibly it's just a reaction around this time of the year. Obscure.

Always on the lookout for a good natural disaster on or around Christmas, the news channels were almost disappointed; saviour arrives in the form of a mud slide in Java, good stuff to open the otherwise bland news.

Boxing Day. Yvonne has money and militancy—she's "goin' shopping"—a challenge it more sounds like, but to who we will never know.

I risk another tour on the bike and manage 50 klms toward an undefined goal. No flats, no running over the bird life around the lake. Everyone happy.

Conditions are static. Cloudy. Some wind. Some rain.

This is the day after Boxing Day. I don't know if it has a name, well, in this case it would be handy if it was called Friday because that's what it is. I am seldom as aware of what day it is. I made the effort for you.

We are told there is a suspicious low off the coast which will bring gale force winds and torrential rain. So far we've had a lot of wind and sporadic rain. Too much wind for a kite buggy day; too much rain for a bike riding day.  Not enough of either to make you want to curl up in a chair with a copy of Dostoevsky's 'Notes From the Underground' - snapped up by Yvonne during her shopping epic.

You see, The Master and Margarita is finished. Really. I held on as long as I could but I had to give in and finish it. I was hoping it might never come to an end, but it did, as they do. It was almost sad to turn the last page, but I finished it as a Bulgakov fan. A committed fan.

The Master and Margarita is a delicious book, a delicious read, a satire, an amazing collection of believable characters, including poor old Satan himself, and a black cat, naturally, and Margarita reeeks of sensuality.

Who would be unable to read on a day with weather like this?  

So, there it was. The Christmas week. With no ad breaks.



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