Hibernation

Two weeks of this, two weeks of bliss and it’s hard to get up and do something about it. The plates are piling up in the corner of the room scenario. The washing needs folding not just moving onto another clear surface situation.

The squirrels are going nuts for nuts right now. They have pouches in their faces full of foliage, and they slither along the ground scouting for yet more nuts to store somewhere they won’t remember. Rains come and go, plump off-white clouds are ensconced in the skyscape and morph in to night time with its hazy pollutant glow.

We are in uncharted seas, bobbing along between summer and festivities that involve baubles and time is sort of sloshing about and I feel quite tired and complacent. There was a play I saw, where the protagonist turned out to be a slug or a caterpillar of sorts, and he described his home fondly as being the underside of a cool dank rock. I get it now. He was living under a rock. That’s what people use as an excuse for not keeping up to date with television or the Kardashians or Cameron; I’ve been living under a rock for the past year.

Hibernation is a want, isn’t it. If only because daylight is getting scarcer and layers of clothing are growing thicker; we could all just snooze a little longer, and move less and eat more and sleep deep. But alas, we aren’t bears or caterpillars or squirrels, and we have timepieces and electricity and appointments. Oh to be a bundle! I said, Oh to be a bundle.