We're currently enjoying an Indian summer here. The local temperature is 24C, as hot as I like it that's for sure, and the perfect opportunity to cut the grass out front, but I doubt I will. That would be too easy for "Mr Procrastinator", the guy who needs to take it to the brink, to the point of, "it's almost too long, almost too late in the year, and if left any longer it won't get properly dry till Spring". It's good to know I still have that devilment, that, derring-do. I mean, anyone can follow the "rules" and do their chores when it's easiest. It takes balls to flout common-sense and convention. That calls for a double-woot. Woot! Woot!
Talking of temperatures, it's hovering around 40C now in Egypt. Why do I mention this? Well it's the perfect segue to inform you I'm not only basking in the autumnal sunshine, I'm basking too in glorious, splendiferous, oh-my-fucking-god-it's-great-erous, solitude (that's the kind of solitude that includes cats, but is bereft of that troublesome species, humanity). Yes, it's that time of year when Janet goes a gallivanting to exotic climes (this year it's the aforementioned Egypt), and leaves me, yes me (the guy who only learned to tie his shoe-laces last year) with the responsibility of the house, it's immediate environs, and the cat. And so, here I am, at my most responsible, like all good managers, basking yet again, but this time in my inflated sense of self-importance, with my feet up and coffee with biscuits to hand. For those of you concerned about the running of things, fear not, I delegated all to the cat! [raises feet into a more comfortable position, takes a deep contented sigh, and muses - the only thing missing is waitress service!].
On a guitary-note (do I hear groans) I did my first re-stringing this week. A relatively simple affair, especially when armed with a string-winder cum peg-popping string-cutter. And the result was spectacular. I had no idea (being so inexperienced) just how dull my strings had become, indeed, maybe they were like that from the start, possibly cheap and nasty 'forrin' affairs? Now the instrument rings bright and clear, making it almost a joy to listen to my rookie-fumblings. You know, a long long time ago, as a boy, a teacher described me as highly-strung. I've been thinking since, wouldn't it be good if I could be re-strung, not wound so tightly, so I ring out more brightly, more cheerfully?