Today More Than Ever

I know: not a sole representative of twelve trying months and months of trying. It is tempting to concede the shame has brought me here. But truth being what it is— This will no longer be a home for housekeeping. Theref., as you can plainly, the above is the final on the matter, more not to follow, not even where prefaced by anticipatory I knows. I shan’t even mention, even here, my no-longer contemporaries but one, as I have been no-longer, too, for long enough. That being said — if that counts as being said —, I would like to say, briefly, and with full knowledge of the resultant failures of every of its predecessors, that this sentence marks a henceforth of effort, if not (probably) profusion. And with that last of the keeping done, I’ll commence.

Firstly, no secondly, to the business of the day, of what happened within it. I was startled awake for the fifth consecutive time by birds in my loft. My only measure of defense against the recent heat wave had been to keep my windows up overnight. And now they were perched around the bowl that housed my breakfast, and bathing gaily in my coffee. It proved an appetite-sapping sensation of feathers, bird blobs and mysterious gluten-substitute, and I ditched at least half of it in favour of a dozen singles and a hastily whisked nog. My day looked up from there, at a sky with gouacher colours than I was used to.

I had walked over three kilometres, nearly five, to an ailing sibling, the dual victim of weather and parental conspiracy. It was nearing dark when I saw the gate. The company upon arrival was agreeably ingenuous, allowing me sufficient space to tend to the bedside. I thanked them each and together. Over the next four hours I wrote twenty-six letters on borrowed stationery. Completing the last one (Z), I folded up my piece of paper and failed to contain my pride.

Four Score and Seven Somethings

Quiet but for the steps up, austerely wooden and creaking their age, then the door itself, which scraped and squealed open. There was a film of dust on everything, including the man in the doorway. He looked as if he had been torn away from a life’s work, as if preparing to smash four impertinent kneecaps, but something inside him clicked and we were shown in. Silently we made our way past ancient assortments of study and long-since-inspiring busts, my companion unable to keep his eyebrows a respectable distance from his hairline. Then a small back-office, where we were beckoned faintly to sit. Which we did.

"It's, ahem, nice to see you," said the proprietor, pronouncing the throat-clear rather than bothering to affect it.
"I suppose it must be," said Ben.
"You too," I said.
He shifted slightly.
"My daughters have told me all about you."
"Lies!" said Ben, attempting to perfect the moment with a friendly punch on the arm but connecting instead with a none-too-pleased left breast.
"Quite," was (looking down) all he could manage, Ben sheepishly withdrawing as he did so.
"You too," I said.

...

"So what is it you do?"
"Well," began Ben, "there's absolutely everything to be said for not working."
The man failed to conceal his wince.
"We've attended several promising interviews," I added.
“You’re—” he started, the rest of the sentence catching in his throat. He composed himself. “You’re— not employed?”
“Unemployed, in fact,” said Ben, enjoying himself.
I smiled weakly. “Between engagements.”
“I see.” The man took four slow, seething breaths. “And you expect me to give you my blessing, to give over my daughters to— the unemployed?”
“It’s the bride’s parents who foot the bill, is it not?”
It was always difficult being tactful with Ben about.
“Excuse me?”
“Traditionally, at least,” said Ben. “And my friend and I are nothing if not traditional.”
“And what about after that?”
“Hm?”
“How will you support them after the wedding?”
“By then we’ll have finished our novels,” said Ben.
“Novels?”
“I’ve already deleted eighty pages. Can’t be far off now.”
By this time he had his chair turned completely away from us, staring down the wall for want of a window.
“Plot?” he asked, though the question mark was barely audible.
“Man wakes up one morning and suddenly realises life is cold and empty.”
“That’s a premise," he snapped. "What else happens?”
“Well, he walks about a bit, meets a few chaps, has a scrape or two. But he ends up not having changed his mind about it.”
“Good God.”
“Yours was about spies or something, wasn’t it, Hugh?”
“No. I’m not quite up to the part where you come up with a plot yet.”
“No? Which part, then?"
“Violent self-doubt.”

He shut down at that point. We were both experts at provocation but it was as if he had willed his heart to cease. Nothing would awaken inside him again.

We went home and had sex with our girlfriends.