Waiting for the Builder

I’m waiting for the Builder. His name is Dave. This works well for me (being memoryly challenged) because most of the men I know are called Dave. So when I call a man on the phone I can just say ‘Hello Dave’. There does follow the problem of what I’m supposed to be talking about. I’ve decided to stick with the opening gambit of ‘Hello Dave, the roof is leaking.’

Dave the builder understands this. Dave my boyfriend understands this (or understands me sufficiently to ignore random phone overtures). All my Dave friends know me well enough to respond by hanging up.

I’m waiting for the builder. He’s supposed to be coming to fix the roof. The roof is leaking. Mostly I’m not all that very house proud. I’m successfully ignoring the fragrantly rotting front door, the musicality of the plumbing and the interesting angles my ceilings construe themselves into. But leaking roofs are not good. I’ve seen the television programmes.

It starts with a leaking roof. Then the timbers get wet rot and dry rot and rot. Then the wall falls down. Your previously (and possibly aristocratic) family is inconvenienced by the lack of wallage. They leave the stately pile for the suburbs. You stay in the stately pile living in the only room where it doesn’t rain, accompanied by your mêlée of cats. Years pass. A television crew turns up to your previously stately pile (now transformed to a pile) wanting to know why you didn’t get the roof fixed. Your only response by this stage is ‘Meow’.

I’m still waiting for the builder. This isn’t the first time. I suspect it won’t be the last.

Waiting, Determinism, Vodafone and a Lesser Known Russian Film Director

I’m waiting for a man.

No, it’s not him.
He’s at work and has just emailed me the following quote from Tarkovsky (a film director whom only the Unknowable Man might know about as he knows things that are generally unknowable). The quote says:

“I am categorically against entertainment in cinema - it is as degrading for the author as it is for the audience." As an author I find this is most reassuring but has little bearing on the waiting process.

I’m waiting for a man.

I’ve been waiting for this man for about as long as you’ve been waiting for me to write another blogpost. Possibly longer.

My New Year’s resolution is to find my memory. Which I mislaid somewhere in the autumn. The Autumn is a big place in which lose something. There are a lot of places to look. I’ve searched in the usual places that memories like to hide. Places like under my pillow, in the wardrobe, in seasons, out of seasons and under the cushions of the sofa. I’ve found old tissues, a dress I bought in 1976, a deal of frozen things and things I can’t remember what they are, what they might be for, or words to describe their unknowableness.

I’m waiting for a man.

This is why:
Picture the scene – New Year’s Eve, 2am, I am asleep somewhere in deepest Pembrokeshire. My phone rings.
The Physicist: I’ve….phone ….camera…(noises of nightclub)…shoes…taxi...
Me: Hello? Hello?
The Physicist: Where…can’t…(more noises of nightclub)…lost…
Me: Happy New Year!
The Physicist:…(crackle)….bad sig….

And so, on my return from deepest Pembrokeshire I began my waiting vigil. First I called the Vodafone helpline. Physicists can’t call helplines so mothers have to impersonate physicists calling helplines. Luckily, having received a lengthy explanation of the nature of Quantum and realising, through true mathematical proof, that there is no such thing as determinism, I am well qualified to impersonate physicists. And since I now know that there is no such thing as determinism and there is only probability I can resign myself, or at least probably can, to not knowing whether a real person will ever answer the Vodafone helpline.

I wait. Probably for as long as you have been waiting for me to write another blogpost. Luckily, since there is no such thing as determinism someone did answer. They asked me nothing about physics, cinema or Tarkovsky. Which was disappointing.
And now I’m waiting.
For a man.
To deliver the Physicist’s new phone.
It is as degrading for the author as it is for the audience.
I can’t remember why.