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
