Not doing it

It must be about six weeks since I last blogged. I have been on holiday. Well, sort of.

Taking a holiday from writing is seductive. It just comes upon you. Easy. Just like standing on a slippery slope and being given a slight push. You slide down gently at first, and then you accelerate as the days go by. And by the time you know it, days, weeks and even months have passed. 

And try as you might, anything you want to say sounds foolish or irrelevant or both.

So, time for a diversion: Watch the Summer Games; paint the house; take a trip. When all these fail to inspire, try selling the house.

They say that death, divorce and moving house are the three most stressful things in life. I have not tried divorce and, so far, I have escaped the attentions of the grim reaper. But trying to write a piece when the spirit sags is, in my view, much, much more disruptive to the soul than any of these.

…So we sold the house and, temporarily homeless, took up residence in a midtown Toronto hotel two or three blocks from where the house was (and still is). 

Hotel residence is never ideal, but this one is particularly vile, even though it is one in an acclaimed international chain. Besides, its rates were extortionate, probably because of demand created by the ongoing TIFF (Toronto International Film Festival) season. Although we did eventually negotiate the rate down (by the VAT), the stay caused serious damage to the family exchequer. A film festival should not be a licence for hotels to “tiff” from the public, the authorities should be told.

But the price has been worth it, nevertheless. I find I can write once more.

Tell Fren Tru