I am increasingly suffering from boredom. It is probably my own fault: I am too intellectually lazy to read hard new interesting books - but also, because I don't have anyone to talk about them with when I do.
I have begun to hate conversations in some way, because I know what I think about things, and no one else ever seems to put up an interesting alternative. Small talk is one of the things I dread, of course I can do it, and I listen to people and respond and try to dig a little deeper into their thoughts, then they take fright. Yesterday I went to the lovely funeral of a lovely man and I did have a very pleasant conversation with someone - and she told me a nice little story.
Her 95 year old father is a retired builder. She rang him to see how he was while she was in Edinburgh last week. Her brother replied.
"Hello. How's Dad? Is he there? Can I speak to him?"
"Well, he's out fixing the roof at the moment."
Stubborness in the elderly is a topic that produces many such anecdotes.
So what is not boring? Speculations - reading good novels - writing - even reading the papers occasionally.
However, I am finding a great deal of my daily life really tedious. I see the same people, have the same conversations, deal with the same issues and cook the same food. Yesterday I came back from Jozef's funeral having had nothing except 4 glasses of water, and bought some crab and prawns at Waitrose - consumed these with a bottle of Verdicchio in the sun in the garden - that was fun, Mark and I had a proper talk.
I find the prospect of small talk with strangers boring, I even find bits of Radio 4 boring now. The Summer Squall and the associated PR is a bit boring - the Risk Assessments are boring. I am becoming boring, I don't want to talk lest I become boring to other people.
Something interesting this morning: the latest edition of Cantiana the journal of the Kent Historical Socy - it had two or three interesting articles in it. One of which was about marriages in Thanet in the late 16th C - apparently Thanet was rather more cosmopolitan than one might think - there were Italians and Portuguese living here - and people married out of Thanet more than you would expect, more than elsewhere in E. Kent in fact. So much for insularity. There was a 15thC bridge at Sarre - wonder what happened to its stones? There was a list of the origins of the monks at Canterbury, most of them had toponymics, but one who didn't was called Aurifaber - perhaps a goldsmith - perhaps a converso? All this stuff is interesting, because it relates to what I already know - expands the things a bit, but none of it is earthshattering - although it is a little mind-altering (the article about Thanet marriages).
Why am I so bored? Have I recognised my own limits to growth? Is this how it is going to be for the rest of my life? Yesterday I was driving home - and it was another perfect summer day - sun, tall cumulus, yellow fields, poppies, green woodlands near Canterbury, the river, the orchards, all just so. And what thought came into my head? "I wish I had a lover?" By which I didn't mean what people really mean - but someone to call up and say "it's a lovely day, let's go and sit in a garden in a pub, eat nice food, get mildly drunk and flirt and exchange ideas." I don't even think I mean a lover, I think I might just mean a friend - but perhaps a male one for a change. Oh hell, now I'm feeling sorry for myself. Of course I have lots of friends, but no one who really satisfies these things. Damn now I feel like crying: the Citalopram has clearly worn off - I haven't felt like crying for ages.
No comments:
Post a Comment