Twenty something year old doing twenty something year old things

 "Somewhat hungover and somewhat sentimental, this month being the first anniversary Saigon's fall, or liberation or both, I wrote my aunt a letter to commemorate a year's worth of tribulation. " Once again I have returned to my hobby of picking a sentence I could never write and musing on it. The above is taken from The Sympathizer , written by Viet Thanh Nguyen. It is a book written by a Vietnamese author set just after the Vietnam/ American war--it flits between these two nations, and 'the fall' it documents is Saigon's takeover by the northern Viet Cong. I love this book like I love Vietnam and, particularly *sigh gon. Perhaps I chose this sentence as I am feeling particularly nostalgic from last night's late night/early morning phone call from a friend still living in the bustling heat of the city. He called me from a café which had the familiar blaring-music-played-too-loudly and the sounds of motorbikes' honking horns punctuating every pause...

 Brown paper packages tied up with string, these are a few of my favourite things....I also like brown cardboard packages that arrive in post boxes. One of this kind arrived today, sent by a generous friend and containing Kiley Reid's Such a Fun Age which, I am told by same friend, is about a girl who is twenty six and so sarcastically explores the premise that this is "such a fun age". Something that, we both agree, is not always true and entirely not true at present thanks to a certain Ms. Rona. Yes, I am naming and shaming.  Blame game aside, today I met a delightful being in a beautiful pea green coat and clod in black leather boots with transparent heels. This mirage was my sister though she was very much in the flesh. We had planned to have a snow date though the snow had up and gone, apart from swirling back briefly to kiss us goodbye (as we said goodbye). She bought me a hot chocolate, "for takeaway"--important to let them know, remember--and we discusse...

 The slow languorous Sunday has begun. I woke up and, after making my breakfast of coffee and porridge (garnished with a generous helping of peanut butter), gobbled the rest of Ghost. I have been reading this novel pretty compulsively since I began. The words wash through me like honey, sweet and easy. I do not feel enlightened after each page, but brightened, yes.  Finished and tossing this to one side, ghosting it like the characters it features, I made my way down to Tesco's bottle bank. Empty wine bottles clanking conspicuously in my rucksack. I have had quite a collection built up since roughly mid November. Bags finally emptied they smell like bad breath the morning after a night out--a memory of how things were in the BC days. I never thought I'd be romanticizing hangover breath, but there you go.  Bottles chucked, I suddenly experienced a moment of regret. Should I be keeping these? Don't worry, I am not experiencing attachment syndrome to my used wine bottles. Fo...

 Back to work day. My work during lockdown has been, most consistently, childcare. Jobbing in the often misunderstood 'arts', the effect of Covid was for obvious reasons, pretty grim. Child minding, I am incredibly grateful for. It offers excellent job security and the craic is, as they say, mighty. Today we were playing a highly competitive game of Lollipop Brick.  Ah, you don't know this game I hear you say? Well, let me explain: it involves a basketball hoop, shed wall, rugby ball and 2-3 very loud and hyperactive kids. I am including myself in that category. One team is shooting the ball into the hoop, the other--myself and child A--shoot against the shed wall. In order to score a point, it is imperative that once the ball has hit off the shed, a member of that team touches it. This is harder than it seems especially when child B arrives like a bulldozer charging in between the hitter and the shed, intercepting that crucial 'touch back' at stunning speed and vol...