Improvisation #1

Well well well. Rather than lapse into complete radio silence, I am choosing to begin a post without having any clear idea as to its impending content. But a nice, wholesome update will do, and I think perhaps, a few character sketches of the fabulous people around me.

Updates -

1. For the first time in my adult life I have a room to myself. This revelation in home environment has caused several unbecoming displays of emotion and a long journal entry. In fact, I have in other literary endeavors called my new room a 'sanctuary' and 'akin to a holy place' or some such nonsense, but I think it best to avoid any radical sentiments here. Suffice it to say that a small, rather sparse, definitely cold, and hard-to-get-at room has brought me an inordinate amount of happiness. I even have wireless reception, and am sitting in it this very moment.

2. I am known at sight and by name at three pubs.

3. A local man asked if I was from Rostrevor, a great compliment to my affected Northern Irish Brogue - his level of intoxication will not be mentioned. Also, two lovely English ladies (to be described in future posts - and quite sober) exclaimed at lunch today that my request for tea and milk to be passed down the table sounded Irish. They were shocked, I was pleased, we all drank tea.

4. I discovered the stash of movies. They are not about worship conferences, prayer conferences, prophetic conferences, or in fact about conferences of any sort. This is certain to revolutionize my evenings around the middle of the week.

5. I have had no further misadventures, because I have not ventured much outside of Rostrevor. Defense a) There is a whole world of life in this one little village, and by getting to know it intimately, I am becoming a part of it - much more satisfying than walking around with a camera and being scowled at like a tourist. Defense b) you wouldn't go out in this weather either.

6. For those who are interested, I have been making huge progress at the piano, which is a blessing for me, having been very limited since my injury.

And now, someone I have been dying to introduce to you all - the first person I met in Ireland, the indefatigable Norman.

Norman is English. He is English in a way that went out of fashion sometime shortly after World War II, but Norman has very little interest in fashions, and will tell you so. He is a slight man, not tall and not broad of shoulder, and his eyes are rather close together and his hooked nose is rather prominent. Every day, Norman wears a collared shirt and a tie, both tucked into his corduroys, and a sweater to cover the whole affair. Norman is the grounds keeper, and when changing from his morning ensemble (shirt, tie, sweater, cords) into his outdoor clothes, he vanishes for several minutes, and reappears in quite a different shirt, tie, sweater and cords. He is 73.

The first thing one learns about Norman, however, is not presented to the visual, but the olfactory senses. Norman was born in an age and culture that was indifferent to such trifles as bodily odor, and he has been indifferent to his since. Did I mention, he is 73. The delicate odor of gently cooked rubber and aged, sweating onions is constantly present wherever Norman goes, and Norman goes everywhere. But despite his rough bouquet, Norman is of excellent and fascinating vintage.

Norman worked in a bank for thirty years, raising a family of four girls with his wife Valerie. His thirty years in a bank instilled the most common bank-like attributes in him, that is a perfect adherence to order and procedure, and a withering cynicism that would discourage even the most optimistic person from truly enjoying their banking. Not that Norman isn't happy, or indeed good natured - his face is deeply lined with many laughs, and his smile is quick, if a bit sardonic. No; Norman, like most cynical people, is quite happy and will tell you so. He has even managed to be quite active and healthy for his age - though after the English fashion he so purposefully ignores, he reached his old age very early, and so is very practiced. He can be seen on any clear morning, plodding between the flowerbeds with a small bucket held indifferently in his hand, or stooping amid the geraniums. Despite knowing the proper and common name of every flower and plant on the extensive property, Norman claims he is not a plant person. "They live or they die," he will say, "at least, that's the way I see it. You can't really do much by them, I should think." Actually, if he were a little taller, and said "I shouldn't wonder" instead of "I should think" I would say he was exactly like Puddleglum the Marshwiggle, but more prone to jokes.

I quite like Norman and have done him no proper justice, but the hour compels me to leave off this useless venture. (No use talking to your friends all the time, says Norman, they'll never know you were gone) I am too tired to continue, but I promise not to be so long between posts. Until then, Cheerio.