Inspiration alludes me as I embark on today’s literary journey. Sitting ready to initiate my lexilogical voyage, at the moment the postcode of a topic destination eludes me. This absence of these metaphoric SatNav’s (GPS) instructions currently delaying me from getting this show on the road.
As it’s not uncommon for me to start this creative process bereft of a subject, I’m not panicking just yet about currently being without epiphany. In fact, if memory serves me correct, one of the blogs I penned earlier in the year had no topic at all……. Unless you class writing 600+ words about not having a topic as the topic!……. Which on reflection was the case.
Yesterday, I received a call from a Volunteer Co-ordinator of the hospice where my father passed away in the middle of October. During an amiable chat, she requested I attend a meeting to discuss my application to undertake voluntary tasks on the hospice’s behalf.
Until I attend next week’s meeting I’m unsure what my duties will entail, however, unless it’s carrying out a charity lion taming act or a sponsored emptying of a snake pit, I anticipate this work will be cathartic, rewarding and free from lion attacks and snake bites.
Within previous narratives, I’ve put quill to parchment waxing lyrical about the warmth of feeling encountered while undertaking voluntary work. Something I’ve been involved in on numerous occasions with different charities, in the last two years.
Those particular monologues not an attention-seeking strategy aimed at highlighting I’m a great bloke for doing charity work (well maybe a bit). Moreover, to convey the spiritual lift I experience from involvement in activities of this nature.
I do understand lots of individuals aren’t currently in a position where they can spare time undertaking work gratis for charitable organisations. However, if you have and are looking to raise your spirits, along with showing humanity and a passion for a worthy cause, you could do a lot worse than volunteer to raise funds for this type of institution.
Before you ask, my new voluntary role for the hospice isn’t as their Volunteer Recruitment Manager.
As an aside, looking out on my back garden I’m greeted with a frost covered patio table and sorry looking sedum bushes, whose moribund burgundy flowers have commenced morphing into a winter rust colour.
On my back fence, our little feathered friends fly into ivy covered trellis work. Also witnessing this, Karen asked me if I knew what they were, to which I responded “Birds.” ……. I know it was an ignorant response to my missus, but hey I wasn’t wrong!
“I mean the names of the birds!” she snapped back at me.
“I’ve no idea……. I call them Frank, Arthur, Harry and Bill but, in the absence of their birth certificates, if I’m honest I don’t definitively know.” I mischievously countered.
“Not their Christian names, you idiot!…… The species of the avians in our garden!” she scolded.
“How do you know they’re Christians?” I queried, with tongue firmly in cheek.
“What you on about?!” came my wife’s bemused retort.
“You said they had Christian names…… I was just asking how you knew they were Christians!” I teased.
“Shut up will you!…… Birds don’t have religions!” my long-suffering missus snapped back.
“How do you know?!….. Just because you don’t see them adorning religious headwear with a book of prayer under their wings, doesn’t say they don’t subscribe to the teachings of a rabbi, a Buddhist mantra or Cat Stevens……. Although, I doubt birds would want much to do with Cat Stevens, or indeed Steven’s cat.” I mooted, not wanting to relinquish this p*** taking opportunity.
“Who’s Steven?” Karen inquired.
“No one in particular, it was a play on words.” I replied, wondering if Karen was winding me up more than I was her.
“Anyway, be sensible for once…… Do you know the names of the birds in our back garden?” Karen persevered.
“I’ve already told you!….. Frank, Arthur, Harry and Bill!” I replied mischievously.
Cue for my wife to vacant the living room in despair.
2 kids who've flown the nest, 1 wife whose flown with Jet2. Born at a young age in 1960's Leeds, the author became interested in the literary life when his wife bought him a dog. Having an allergy to dogs, he swapped it for a typewriter. Being unable to train the typewriter to retrieve tennis balls, he reluctantly turned to writing...... Website - www.writesaidfred.org