I find myself pensive this evening. It has been a wonderful weekend, with lots of adventures to write about. I still haven't told you about all the inspiration at last weekend's Knitting and Stitching Show at Alexandra Palace, or regaled you with tales of my first night as a burlesque dancer, performing on stage for a paying audience...and to add to that I have Apple Day at our local farm shop (I had a go at archery, amongst other things) the model railway show, the vintage fayre, or just the general loveliness of autumn days and coffee from a proper coffee pot, falling leaves and the scent of cinnamon and cedar in the air.
There will be time enough for that another day. I find myself this evening with snatches of T S Eliot poetry wandering through my mind..
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
I had a tempestuous relationship with Eliot when I studied him years ago, but I find he creeps into my mind more and more often now.
Perhaps it is that I have just watched The Ghost and Mrs Muir and cried at the ending, and then did the washing up listening to Elvis singing 'It Hurts Me' or that tomorrow I find out if I am redundant again or not, and a dear, dear Aunt gets some medical test results which will I think be bad news, or worse news.
Maybe it is just autumn days filled with rain or just the Sunday evening blues. But I do feel pensive this evening. If I was in Little Women, I would be sitting in my garret eating apples while the rain pattered against the window. If I was in Pride and Prejudice I would be taking a long walk across the fields, getting my petticoat quite muddy. But I am not, I am here, so I shall boil the kettle, run a bath, and settle back with The Persephone Biannual and plan a great many literary treats to come. And try to remember that this too, shall pass.