Almost a non-existent day in the land of my memory. I washed some clothes, I remember… + on such small events the world turns. It’s depressing, immensely. I’m heavily engrossed in “Daniel Martin” at the moment (the moment of writing, 2 or 3 days hence), + Fowles reminds one that telling a story is more than describing the events. Or at least can be. Which means that “Feb 2nd – Did the washing” is not really telling the story at all.
The weather has changed, become brilliantly, scorchingly hot, a flawlessly blue sky. It makes the days idyllic, poems in an anthology, something that will become well-remembered, a favourite memory but not the true pattern of events, not the real story.
And to work in the evening. Just a few more policemen, not the invasion of boys in blue I’d been led to expect. They worry one tho’. They’re here for Waitangi Day, a national holiday to celebrate the famous treaty when the Maoris were put in their place (I am not knocking it – I know little of it) which centres, naturally enough, on Waitangi. And which has become, in the last year or two, a focus for demonstration + protest. Hence the police, who all seem to be itching for a fight, + who are, it seems to me, not the kind of sensible, reasoned + patient peacekeepers one would hope for. But they do drink, + keep me working until 1 o’clock, this morning. For once, Marion was pre-empted + not allowed to close at 10 – she really doesn’t seem to want to make money.
Yes, thought I had mentioned Waitangi. It was becoming quite a bone of contention and protest – hence all the policemen.
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