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Not mentioning the war

21 March 2003

The TV is full of war and rancour, with the pro-Bush faction (notably, of course, our own Tony) demanding that those of us opposed to this bloody invasion should immediately and entirely reverse our position now that it's actually started, to support Our Boys (and, of course, Girls). Well, I'm sorry, but no. If a thing is immoral and unjust in prospect, it remains immoral and unjust in practice, and those who prosecute it will have no support from me.

Which is why I have fled the TV and come to the keyboard to change the subject entirely, and talk about my chillies. Last year, the two varieties I grew took weeks to hatch, from seeds in pots on the windowsill. This year I put 'em in the airing cupboard, and half of them are coming up already. Trouble is, it must be like being born, the same degree of shock for the poor wee things. There they are in a nice dark humid hotness, and now they're out they must have light, and all I have to offer is the grey chill of an English springtime windowsill. Their pots are cold to the touch, and I don't think they've grown at all today, I think they're stalled. Tomorrow I'll see if I can find a propagator they can sit in, for the extra protection that would offer; there's nothing else I can think of to do, unless I can find some way to warm the windowsill beneath them. Ah, the burdens of parenthood...

So I fuss around the chillies, I fuss around the back yard (finally having access to the back yard again, after a winter of being locked out; my back door had warped itself solid in the frame and I couldn't get at my herbs till Harry came round with his plane and smoothed it back to regularity), the cats and I fuss around each other. The rest of the time, I work. Sometimes, work is not too demanding; today I had to abandon chillies and yard and cats and all and go meet Jean in town in her lunch hour, in order to give her the US cover for Outremer vol 3 (A Dark Way To Glory), so's she could scan it for the website. I'm sorry, but it simply had to be done. And I did only have one pint. Well, there wasn't anywhere to sit, and I hate standing in pubs. Some people do that by choice, do it as a matter of course, and I don't understand it. And mostly they do it at the bar, and that drives me wild, it's just so extraordinarily selfish. People are, I find. They think all the time of themselves, and hardly any of them hardly ever of Me. But setting their bodies in groups between me and the beer, denying me access, making it awkward to squeeze by when my hands are full of drinks - that's unforgiveable. Amazingly, I have never yet dropped a drink in a pub, but it's got to come. And when it does, it's going to be their fault, no question.

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© Chaz Brenchley 2003
Reproduced here by permission of Chaz Brenchley, who asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.