Raining today. Stay at home and play

Stories from the sunroom in my dressing gown: Sunday, 25th March 2018. 11am

Two things prompted him to tell a story. He had been reading Mario Vargas Lllosa in the bathtub whilst it pizzled with rain outside on the plastic roof on the pergola.  VL's first book was "In the Time of the Hero".  The first chapter dealt with the mischief that young men get up to at Army training, at the college in Lima. Included was theft of shoelaces, pretending to have bad dreams due to being late for 'watch', and then something to do with a chicken and other aspects of that which you must read yourself.

The second, arising from the style of VL, was that certain little peccadillo of life can be the substance of a story, and might create a flicker of recognition of commonly held perceptions. And that is my story for today.

See the photo attached. It is a tea pot stand. When one makes tea, in a pot, it shouldn't go on the bench, otherwise it might stain, or burn the surface. Mine are wood, and so a deep burn would not be good. Or, better said, would be bad.

I had a tidy up about 4 months ago. Started in the bathroom, worked toward the kitchen, then dilly dallied for about 2 months until regaining strength, started on the CDs and bookshelves. With tidying up comes loss of old friends. IN this case, it seemed to be the tea pot stand. That is the first and only detriment I perceived I had suffered.

"Where was the fucker?" he said to himself under his breath, or was it out loud? Who cared. The dog didn't mind a bit of swearing.

With the rain beating down, the Sunday bike ride was cancelled, and the teamsters who normally participated were joking on their comms app about alternative conduct, opportunities etc. He made arrangement to share a pot of tea with Merv. But the bloody pot stand was missing. 

Again, there are two ways of looking at it. An opportunity to ignore an irritant, or something which needed attention. He had been ignoring the issue for a month now, and didn't like the aesthetics of a nice tea pot without a stand, sitting on some plastic breadboard instead of the appropriate piece.

But, taking account of what the Dalai Llama might have said or felt, he put that aside and ignored it once again. But first, had one last look in and amongst the numerous tea bag containers.

Bugger me, if the tea pot stand wasn't wedged between the English Breakfast and the more aromatic Earl Gray!

Exhilaration, and joy! What was lost, was more exciting to have been found had it not been lost at all. PLus the philosophical internal debate had been beneficial. Learning to live with mental disease....

Love, light and peace.

PS



He thinks, without pure recollection, that the tea pot stand may have been his mother's, and when the four siblings were settling amongst themselves the disposition of the chattels from the apartment where she lived after she ceased to do so, his recollection is that this was one item he preferred to have, if the others didn't mind... which they didn't.