and all that stuff.

But life and things passed,

gave way to armchaired collapse

in front of a screen,

scrolling through memes,

watching videos of cats.

Until one evening,

when retrieving the remote,

I found you again, on the shelf,

as if stumbling upon a swan’s nest

amongst the reeds, hidden,

the smell of your pages,

like fresh bed linen.

Feeling rather pleased with myself for this month’s effort (although I never did get beyond page 29), I turned up to book group only to learn that nearly everyone else had finished it. They presumably have less hectic lives than mine. I did manage to sneak a quick look at the Wikipedia entry on Proust, having excused myself to go to the toilets, and so I was able to hold my own for a short while.

But when the conversation moved to the novel’s embodiment of the principle of intermittence and a debate began on whether life was simply a series of different perceptions and often conflicting aspects of reality, I zoned out and focused my attentions on my cashews.

Thursday March 29th

I have been filling the gaps in my workday by scrolling through Twitter. The number of tweets to read is staggering! There are a lot of people in the world without much to do.

Liz, it would seem, is an occasional tweeter. She sends a tweet out – on average – every two days, and typically retweets those of others, two or three times a day. She is most active on Twitter between the hours of 11 to 12 a.m., and 7 to 8 p.m. Statistically, she is more likely to tweet during that early evening period, whereas most of her retweets are usually sent out in the morning, particularly around 11.35 a.m. The tweet sample for this analysis was taken only over a nine-month period and a longer-term study may yield different results.

This chance investigation of Liz’s online behaviour reminds me that it’s Poetry Club next week. It’s about time I took it more seriously: spend more time on my poems so that they’re in tip-top condition for when I have to get up and perform them. It is a mistake, I think, for a poem to be written in isolation from its audience.

Friday March 30th

These are post-Proustian times that we are living in; I have never felt so alive! Mrs McNulty appears to have other ideas, though. I caught her this morning stuffing a flyer on will-writing services through my letter box. I unlocked the door quickly but she vaulted back over the fence before I had the chance to confront her.

Today is Good Friday and the long weekend gives me a chance to work on my poems for Poetry Club. I got my head down with ferocious abandon.

Saturday March 31st