I’ve Been to See the Gay Mother

Saturday 18th July 2020

Luckily she hopes that hugging and kissing won’t come back. Still terrible dread of contamination – but as of today we’re in the clear with the time lapse all being well. Greatly encouraging is that she’s shrunk and hooped so much now that I’m a good 3 feet above her, so not breathing into her air space on the whole. Maybe this is how older people protect themselves in general, by diminishing and thereby getting out of the main airwaves.

We found some old basins that hadn’t been used since 1956. The Gay Mother said they were in the house before she came. I never knew that. I always thought they’d been put in in 1956, when the Gay Mother and Father bought the house. One of them was convenient for my room so I pressed it into service. The tap worked better after application of WD40. Suddenly I’d got an ensuite up to a point. It’s incredible how much you can do with just a basin if that is all you have. It was also available for W.H.Auden-type activities.

For years I’ve been wanting an ensuite at the Gay Mother’s. Strange that it’s taken This Time of Wrong to jolt one into life that was already there.

So often do we overlook our gifts and in seeking more, especially more and more bathrooms, not know that already those things for which we yearn have already been conferred, although not quite in the expected form.

The Gay Mother has rejected television in almost all its forms. Her book, by Mungo Park, didn’t arrive from Abe Books. There was a parcel addressed to her but it was my new foundation garments from Harvey Nicks whose arrival was just in time because I’d left all my pants behind, as well as all my shirts. Only had T-shirts, which just lasted the week.

The Gay Mother couldn’t believe that the parcel of undergarments had been directed to her.

The next day her book arrived from Abe Books and she set to reading it at once. She is much concerned about BlackLivesMatter  and the solution seems to be to read an account of an 18th century visit to The Gambia. There was also the matter of the cover of The Tablet, featuring a black sculptress from the Victorian Times.

One day the Gay Mother found a Fritillary butterfly in the garden. On another a different butterfly settled on the kitchen windowsill resulting in the toast being burnt. But she said it wasn’t a butterfly of any importance, unlike the Fritillary. The pizza which was being re-heated also got not quite burnt but high-baked to a biscuit but that wasn’t because of any butterfly but from trying to meet a furniture polishing target at the same time.

A Sculptress on the Cover of The Tablet

A Sculptress on the Cover of The Tablet

A Less Important Butterfly. But a Butterfly is Always an Event

A Less Important Butterfly. But a Butterfly is Always an Event

 

 

 

Posted Saturday, July 18, 2020 under Adrian Edge day by day.

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