Am I getting boring?
I called my sister the other day and she was just rushing out to see an opera. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow!’ she said – and then she didn’t, because she had to go to a poetry reading and then out for lunch at some cafe and then….
So when we finally DO get on the blower, it’s my turn to entertain her with all the things I’ve been doing.
‘Oh ahrrr, turnips’re coming along nicely…’
I exaggerate, as usual – but really, in the country, nothing much happens. The weather does stuff. The plants grow, or don’t. The elderly folks tell me tales of their doings in the early 20th century, and the parlous state of the glassware. Nothing to write home about.
To add insult to injury, The Girl is now at some picturesque village in France having adventures and freshly baked baguettes. Ok, our home is also picturesque and (sometimes) adventuresome, but it’s our HOME. I don’t know if there’ll ever come a time when my feet don’t occasionally itch to be Somewhere Else – especially, for some reason, Europe. I know I’m not supposed to like Europe, because getting there warms the globe, and Asia is only next door, and why not ‘see your own country first’. To which I can only reply, shut up, I like castles (and if you’ve seen one golden Buddha you’ve seen them all)!
Which makes me wonder, am I becoming a cud-chewing rural? I read, I write, I compose a bit – but I’m not exactly over-stimulated. Does this mean my brain pathways are turning into potholed back roads, and I’ll get dementia in another year or two? Does it mean I’ll get boring? (Maybe I already was boring. Whatever.)
I’d rather live here – watching grass grow – then THERE, watching traffic flow – but I probably have to start getting out more. Maybe I’ll start a local writers’ group (only with some sort of exclusion clause covering the local poet who writes odes to nature which would make a wattle wither).
Do people’s higher faculties shrivel up and drop off in the country? Should I be worried?