The last weekend
I must write my last post for the calendar year, I fret. The weekend has been lazy, to say the least. But unlike Granny Weatherwax, I do know decadent has nothing to do with having ten teeth, since Nanny Ogg would be unident then; I know it is more to do with not opening the curtains all day, as Granny suspects.
I hate winters. We never had them when I was a child, to start with. My first encounter with winter had me wrestling duty, conscience and a streak of self-preservation, which screamed 'go back to Madras' at me. But a few years in Delhi and even Calcutta winters will 'larn' you, as Huck Finn says.
So one learns indolence and basking in sunlight. One learns knitting, but that is another post. One learns the luxury of a good quilt, the reason why more children are conceived in winters and such fascinating things. One learns about winter vegetables and pigging out. One learns that the kitchen is a wonderfully warm place on cold dawns.
Add to this a couple of decades of experience. What comes up is a tendency to leave the geyser on, all the time, even while feeling guilty about using hot water to brush teeth and wondering what kind of hell such luxury will land you in, but preferring to be comfortable here and now.
I really should be writing, I think. The last weekend of the year should be blogged about, surely. But beer and late pasta lunch make for sleepiness.
This napping in the afternoons is a new thing for me. It started thanks to the side effects of the methotrexate therapy. Though the drug was discontinued, I continue napping. I slide under the quilt and consider what I want to say about the end of another year.
As I get comfortable, I consider that a short nap is not that much of a sin. It is practically an act of virtue, as I will wake up bright-eyed, and then I can write the post. My toes snuggle into the folds of the quilt, creating a warm burrow. I yawn and consider post ideas. One has to shrug a bit and wiggle around to get the quilt all nicely wrapped and it takes fine judgment to make a cocoon.
As years go, 2007 wasn’t all highs, there is that. The lows when they happened were spectacularly low. But it wasn't a bad year, really, was it?
Being diagnosed with 'undiff. connective tissue disorder,' also known as rheumatoid arthritis was a low. The severity of the onset was scary. While there's relief, the relapses and the evolving disease make one appreciate the bright points and highs all the better. I could talk about how life becomes centered on the affected joints.
I could write about how the last weekend was leftover lunch and reading; receiving a call from my bookshop about a book I might be interested in, going and getting it and reading. Oh, and beer and pasta. Wonderful things, weekends are.
I could write about that Rafi song that is haunting me now. Phir miloge kabhi. That's a brilliant song. I could write about my toyboys; music lessons or the latest Araucaria offering- Thomas Hardy novels and a huge grid.
Or I could write about how wonderful it is to see a new comment on a post I wrote early in my career of blogging, how it cheered me and made my day. Comments like that are what a blogger craves, and make blogging the pleasure it is.
I yawn again and close my eyes. Yes, I will write about the last weekend, but after the nap. I will wish the readers of my blog a very happy New Year, too.
I've spent most of what should have been a busy Monday falling in love with your blog. Only an ...erm... numskull of rare merit would stumble upon one of your posts and not feel the urge to keep reading.:-)
You'd better believe your posts are being read - oldest and otherwise. And with a great deal of enjoyment at that! Thank you, Missus Em.:-)
Egad! To think I might have missed you entirely if I hadn't Googled "Kshetrayya"! All right, so it wasn't a VERY busy Monday.:-)