Last year, with no particular optimism, I planted a raspberry and a blueberry. I told them straight, I said, I’m not going to water you, and if you’re expecting fertiliser, well you should have got bought by my brother in law. (They said nothing.) Anyway THIS year I’ve found three raspberries and one blueberry on my bushes. Guess they listened and said to themselves, we’ll show HER. In such simple pleasures are peasants like me satisfied.
Speaking of which, I’ve been thinking…if we want to be happier, never mind complicated philosophies and funny coloured pills and shopping, we should just remember that we’re animals, and give ourselves the things that any animal likes. Company (up to a point). A burrow, or nest as the case may be. Play. Sunlight. Fresh air on our bare skin, and grass under our feet. Food, of the sort that grows. Note to governments and psychologists; these (in my opinion) are the things that human animals thrive on. Things that they do NOT thrive on? Offices. High rise apartments. Running machines. Powdered macaroni cheese. Managers. I could go on. Actually, could you? What do you think makes us human animals blossom, and what makes us wilt?
Oh yes, and Paris. So, I’ve been trying to decide what my fantasy old age looks like. Will it be spent in rural contentment, patting donkeys and making friends with pigs? Or in some lively, picturesque foreign village, arguing politics and dancing the rumba? Choices, choices…and yeah, this IS like some rich fucker torn between the yacht and the private jet. (Mind you, I read that you can live in a geranium encrusted cottage in Spain for half what it’d cost you to buy a one bedroom flat in western Sydney…) Do you have a fantasy old age? What does it look like?
Speaking of fantasy, feel free to browse these free fantasy books (the first of my trilogy Like Flies is one of them).