Last Sunday, I slept in a little bit and then got up and ate breakfast alone in a sun-bathed room while I finished my book. Then I had a bath and read about Hekia Parata and Gordon McLauchlan, and then I threw them on the floor and looked at the expanse that is my stomach. When I was dressed, there was a toasted sandwich waiting for me on the table. And then we took a drive in to Dunedin to visit the museum, but before going to see anything, we sat down at the cafe and ate lolly cake. It was a lovely, lovely Sunday.
Today I am festering in yesterday's filth, and in spite of waking at half past eleven, have already had an afternoon nap. There is nothing remotely poetic about it, and if I could choose, I'd be doing last Sunday-type activities, but there is something nice about being hungover and disgusting and just revelling in it.
Yesterday, walking from the train station to my recently aged friend's house, we passed a church hall where the choir was practising, and it made me feel warm and happy. I don't know why I'd assumed church choirs just sang like that; tv programmes always have choir practice. The street smelled like smoke from wood-burning fires. When we got to my friend's house, we ate cheese and drank beer and borrowed books and talked about museums.
Justin Townes Earle was a disappointment, but that's okay. He has a lovely voice, and plays well, and is capable of writing good songs; songs you want to slow dance to. But he also sings songs about things that just make you mad at this spoilt kid bitching on stage in front you, in spite of the fact that he travels the world playing music, and you are trying really hard not to spill any of your whisky on the ground because you don't want to waste it, and were cheersed earlier for your fifty-cent payrise. Still, there were moments I really enjoyed; listening to a love song (the name of which I knew I'd forget) while holding hands with my favourite person, making fun of the audience while we sat out in the courtyard, and then leaving early (taking back the power!) and doing Dixie accents while complaining about stupid things.
On the way to our next stop, a joint goodbye and birthday party, we talked about mashed potatoes and peas and something with gravy (we don't eat lamb anymore, and Vincent's off sausages since reading about their production - I don't want to know), and now Vincent is in the kitchen cooking them while I keep an eye on the time, and drink ginger beer, and think how much I like my life. When I was little, I think I wanted my life to be something spectacular; to do big things that everyone would see, and be important to lots of people. Now I don't want that even a little bit. I like that concerts are special, and that walking out of one is a big deal to us. I like catching buses and trains and walking to get to people's houses, instead of catching taxis (regardless of what I said to the contrary last night). One day I will do something big, but it won't be for an audience. I'm not done growing yet (self-improvement being, as we know, a life-long commitment), but I know I will always like the little things.