Visions of Consciousness

It’s Sunday evening as I commence this blog. Sitting in my dining area, I’m aware of the Strictly Come Dancing results show which emanates from the corner of the lounge. It’s cheering crowd and jangle of sequins an unwelcome distraction in my attempts to wax lyrical…… God only knows why my wife Karen chose to invite them to film the result show in our lounge!

Whilst commencing this paragraph, in the background I’ve just overheard presenter Tess Daly announce Oti has got through to dance next week. As a non-viewer of the show, I’m making an uneducated pitch that Oti is the correct spelling, not the more popular cereal version of Oaty.

Coming to think of it, I’m not even sure if Oti is a professional dancer or a celebrity. All I know is they got through to the Halloween dancing show next Saturday. I’ve no idea how Wheaty, Corny, Malty and Shreddie did as I’ve now blanked out the show, concentrating instead on penning this literary offering. I will say though that my hope is the Halloween version of Strictly isn’t bereft of any of the cereal gang members.

Ordinarily I don’t write on an evening. I’m generally too tired to focus on the job in hand. However, I need to distract myself this evening as I found this afternoon at my mum’s house (the first Sunday dinner there since my dad passed) an ordeal emotionally. No tears were shed, just the profound sadness I’ve experienced since he left us around two weeks ago moved up a notch or two on the grief scale.

I generally watch TV on a Sunday evening, however as much as I don’t mind Antiques Roadshow or its presenter Fiona Bruce, I’m not enamoured enough by it for the show to take my thoughts away from planet Melancholy. A far off place where the achingly sad Adagio for Strings by Samuel Barber plays on a loop for it’s dispirited inhabitants. A disenchanted group who’ll have spent their Sunday evenings anxiously awaiting news on how Wheaty, Corny, Malty and Shreddie did on the Strictly results show.

It’s 8.26 pm as I commence this paragraph. You may wonder why I often give time checks within my prose. To be honest, apart from padding it out a bit and proving to the doubters I have the wherewithal to tell the time, I’m unable to answer that.

My wife Karen has switched off the TV, choosing instead tunes from the Apple Music iPad app as our current means of family entertainment. I’d have preferred she hadn’t selected Barber’s Adagio for Strings from a playlist called ‘There’s A Noose Loose Aboot The Hoose!’, but hey planet Melancholy here I am, like it or not.

Tomorrow morning I’ll distract myself from the ongoing challenging times by investigating how a fox managed to eat two of our chickens on Saturday night. God only knows how it got into the house, not to mention the fridge, spice rack and pan cupboard!

Right, I’ll bring this narrative to a close as I’m going to retire for the evening. I rarely recollect my dreams when I wake, but from the details I do recall my current daytime epiphanies are more lurid than my visions of slumber.

visions

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