A Pot Of Succulents Is Cheaper Than Getting The Roof Repaired

I planted the succulents in an old bowl that I dragged out of the back of the kitchen cupboard. I got out my trusty drill and drilled a hole in the bottom of the bowl. The succulents that Sam put in the dish on the kitchen bench a week ago. The bits that fell off the pots on the balcony when we were cleaning out the attic so we could put all of the junk from Leonard's room into storage. Our new house mate. Yep, we now have 3 housemates.

Sam asked me if I was going back to work any time soon, to which I answered no. I don't know if I am kidding myself, but I now have money saved and I don't have any debts, so I am now going to try and write... yes, go on say it, a novel. How long have I been putting it off? Too long.

"If you are not going back to work..."

"No, I am not..."

"Then I am renting out the spare room."

So Sam advertised our spare room and now we have a third house mate. Leonard moved in a week ago. He is the silent housemate. He is the shadow, the one that nobody ever sees. In fact, I don't even think Mitch has met him and he has lived here for a week, so far.

Not that I am complaining, I think it is preferable if I don't see them. It was different when I lived with friends, Shane, David, Tim and Nicholas, Aby Austin, Kim Wild, but these are not living arrangements for friends. I've had enough of the corporate world, smarmy, egocentric, wannabes all vying for their own glory, usually at the expense of somebody else, all wrapped up in some bullshit about team building and best practice and performance reviews. Well, you know what, I don't want it any more. And while I didn't want to have housemates, wouldn't have gone down the housemate path, it isn't so bad.

So, the succulents were in the bowl that sits on the kitchen bench where the roof leaks. (I must get up there and start squirting around some more silicone) I've had 2 professional roof plumbers out to fix it and they have only made it worse. I have since been up there and I have nearly stopped it. But, nearly isn't quite good enough, now is it. Oh and winter is here. The funny thing is now that it doesn't leak all the time, just when the rain is at its heaviest. Anything other than a deluge and no leak, appears to be no leak. So, I have nearly got it, there is just one more spot, obviously. I am assuming that if I can't see it leaking then it is not leaking... I hope. So, the best assurance against the leak has been the stainless steel bowl we keep on the kitchen bench. Sam casually threw the succulent pieces into it the other day, which kind of gave the bowl a reason for being on the bench. And I kind of liked the open style of the stainless steel bowl, so I dug around in the back of the kitchen cupboard and found an old desert bowl on which all the glaze had washed thin. I got out my trusty drill and trusty masonry bit and bingo the bowl had a hole and then it was filled with the plant pieces. Lovely. And then I put the newly planted pot back into the stainless steel bowl, and it kind of now looks like it has a reason to be there.

A pot of succulents is cheaper than getting the roof repaired.

The novel, well, that is going to take a bit longer.

"Oh no, not that damn novel," I can hear my friends say. Actually, truthfully, they wouldn't say anything, not really. None of them think I am ever going to write it. It would be more of a whimper from them, if anything, rather than any kind of out loud protest. I give myself too much credit, no really I do.

Of course, I don't really believe I can do it either, not deep down, not really. But that is just my insecurities talking and I am not ever giving up the idea of writing it. No, I will forever entertain the idea. I believe it is possible. I believe I could do it, well, maybe, kind of. Well, you know, in this big, bad world anything is possible, even likely…

Fuck me, if Tony Abbott can be elected to Prime Minister, after all of the lies he told, I can write a fucking story, lets face it. If Donald Trump can be elected to President, with the crap that spews forth from his mouth, I can write a fucking story. If England can vote to leave Europe, when as a country they are, were, doing really well, I can write a fucking story. If a bear can take a crap in the woods…

So, first things first, I have to get my reading back on track. I’m really not enjoying 1984, I’m really not remembering it either. I’ll give it a bit more time. But I am not getting lost in it, I am always aware that it is a struggle.

Then I am going to write some short stories and see if one of them naturally evolves.

Then there are the two, or three, partially written novels that I have, but I feel least inclined. Oh who knows.

I do know one thing, I have very few excuses left not to write it.

My house is full of plants, I'm not sure I could live any other way