A wet Wednesday in October.

Just the sort of day I used to try and bunk off school when I was a kid. I would feign a cold, or some sort of lurgy, and impress upon my parents that under no circumstances should my puny immune system be subjected to the rigours of a walk to school, let alone an entire day at the aforementioned establishment. To my shame, this tactic normally worked, and, with my sisters cries of "but he's not ill!" ringing in my ears, I would eagerly listen to the noise of my parent's cars disappearing off down the drive: I was free!

A day off school is simply one of the best days ever, you're free to lounge around in your pyjamas, watch unsuitable telly (don't forget, this is the mid-70's, so that actually means "Pebble Mill At One"), eat what you like (endless glasses of Lemon Squash and as many Rich Tea Biscuits as I could scoff) and the glorious, lazy hours of absolute inactivity. I would lie on the sofa, doing nothing. Sit on my bed, doing not much. Lie spread-eagled on the bedroom carpet, doing bugger all. Bliss.

But the thing which really sealed the deal for me was my dad's hi-fi. I was now its Master. I could turn the huge Sony amp (a TA 1150!!) up as far as I dared, and play whatever I wanted. My Dad had put all of his Dylan and Simon & Garfunkel onto Reel-to Reel tapes at the start of the 70's so that would always be a starting point, but from 1976 onwards, the best thing to play on a day off was always "New Rose"; with the empty house reverberating to those opening voodoo drums, whilst I sat at the foot of the stripped pine stairs (very 70's) and marvelled at the power, and the naughtiness of it all.

Thanks for all of the kind words yesterday

It's very much appreciated.

I'm getting divorced.

So there it is. Now you know why i've not realy posted much here (or on Down With Tractors, for that matter) for quite some time. I really haven't felt like interacting with people, involving them, or boring them to death with details of my private life.
There's a line in The Lover Speak's "No More I Love You's" (no, NOT the Lennox version, that was a cover!) where David Freeman talks of a language leaving him, and I can most definitely empathise: it's a slow, lingering death, a gradual erosion of something which once was precious, now reduced to a ghost of what it was.
If there's one thing it's taught me though, it's that I don't want that language to leave me forever. I don't want to forget how to feel. I want to find that language, and start speaking again. Part of this will be me finding my blogging voice again, after this enforced hiatus, so i'll be doing my best to post as much as I can over the coming weeks.
Thanks,
Iain
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