A Pause for Sunday

The warm glow of Maithteenth has all but faded, and with it the innocent air of possibility that surrounds the early days of revolution. Henceforth, it will be hard work and dedication, marked by the occasional guillotining and student lock-up. The momentum of the moment will not take care of the labour necessary to keep this train afloat — not now that the wooze of the night is behind us. No; it is time to clamber out of that stranger's bed, smiling wanly on the way, and salvage the remaining waking hours chiseling your renaissance prose. Maithteenth celebrations may have clogged your head somewhat, but if we are to really earn our page in history, we can not afford to underwhelm the expectant. Again.

For some among us, preparation takes an especially carnal form — in stark, quivering contrast to that of dedicated sportsmen. Not subscribing to this ritual myself, I can not, entirely, sympathise. Indeed I was more than a little irked when a breathy Ben phoned me immediately after one of these 'inspiration sessions' to talk shop, something which rapidly became an impossibility in the face of his then-pet's incessant interjections. But next to Stan, who cracks his knuckles via a room full of Scarlet Ladies and generally requires at least a week to recover, these indiscretions were small kittens indeed. Personally I think that we should forgo such distractions until this thing really gets off the tracks. That way, if it is destined never to be, it will not be for lack of effort or dedication.

I shall conclude by detailing my own set-up that others may be inspired and follow. In accordance with my lot, I am nestled among a native garden in a small, homely studio. Bookshelves line three of the four walls, with the remaining housing my desk. The typewriter on which these words were writ is suitably antiquated, and complimented by the oven-brown paper I insist on baking. Staring back at me is an etch of Voltaire or someone, inspiring and writerly. Non-glossed paper. Next to him is a nude of George Eliot I drew from a dream, and next to her one of Thackeray I drew in anticipation of sexism allegations. Manuscript paper has been deliberately strewn around the room and there is no radio. The walls are white, after Forster's metaphor. And I wear plaid. Suitable beginnings for this cultural revolution, no?