A Lazy Day

Boreas 1903

John Williams Waterhouse

1849-1917

I just love this painting

Dear Diary,

Laziness is nothing more than the habit of resting before you get tired.

Jules Renard
1864-1910

I have had a really lazy day today. It started well with a teeny lazy lie-in and then at breakfast-time I had a surprise visit from my favourite daughter, always a delight to see her. After she left I had a little potter in the garden, refilled the bird, squirrel and pheasant feeders, washed Tonto (my car, don’t ask) just because I felt like it, this chore doesn’t happen often but it had reached the stage of dirtiness where I was beginning to feel ashamed. Then M and I took a trip to Hay which is always pleasurable for a bibliophile. Our dentist is in Hay and M had an appointment; it’s a long drive but I never mind as the scenery along the Wye is so beautiful.

Earlier this week a friend C was telling me about an Arvon writing course she had attended recently and she spoke of a young poet called Clare Pollard who was ‘teaching’ there . C had been quite impressed by her writing. I searched the library catalogue to see if we had any of her books in the county but there was nothing. Today I was in a bookshop in Hay and what should I be led to but a slim volume of Clare Pollard’s poems. Synchronicity, that ‘window into the divine’ at work once more.

(I bought the book for said friend).

Here is a poem by said poet.


For My Future Daughter


Try not to think too deeply,
try not to think too well.
Heaven is in small details,
labyrinths lead to hell.
Take comfort from the squirrel,
take comfort from the moon —
like a hot-buttered crumpet,
a kind face in your room.
And if you are now older
take comfort in his smell,
the fact he's cooked you dinner,
the fact he treats you well.
Try not to think too deeply.
You never can be good.
You'll never find a home that
is not marked with some blood.
And sorry that I brought you
to a world where that's true.
The Protestants hate Catholics.
The Arabs hate the Jews,
and half the world hates you, dear.
But I loved your warm head
before I'd even planned you.
I pictured you in bed
and kissed that absent soft-spot,
and though I am not there,
shut your eyes, squeeze my hand tight,
and though I won't be there
in some way I'll be there, dear.
That is how we persist.
My sweet thing, do forgive me
for selfishness. I kiss
you wherever you are now
and hope you're glad of life —
despite the violent weather,
despite the sudden knife —
and that you love that one gift,
that rare thrill of I am
as death pans out around you.
Hope that you do not damn
this mother who loved life so,
she hoped she'd live within
you, after: ball your fist, dear,
and feel your nails dig in.


Clare Pollard


I found a book on roses in Hay too which I hope will make a perfect gift for another dear friend. Here is a picture I found within it.

It is The Shrine by John William Waterhouse 1895. It is in the Christopher Wood Gallery, London.

I also bought a lovely book (for myself) on a favourite place of mine - Dublin. (Well you can’t go to Hay and not buy a book or two can you?) The Hay Festival is coming up soon and my daughter and I are deciding who we would like to go and see, always a hard choice that one.

The rest of today I have lazed about on the sofa, just reading and watching TV. Such decadence… but I have to work on Saturdays so I don’t feel guilty for being idle on a Friday. My body was telling me to rest and just for once I was not arguing.

That’s all for now,

An early night, a bit more reading,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait