The future does not begin in this room

I WENT to my first meeting of U3A Swansea’s politics and citizenship group this week. Despite suggestions to the contrary, it turned out to be as dominated by women as the other U3A groups I’ve joined. When it comes to socialising, retired blokes seem to be very retiring. The guest speaker was a councillor talking about the council’s ambitious redevelopment plans for the city. His presentation was enlivened by a range of slogans to describe the vision(s) behind these plans: a city of innovation and invention, a beach city, a city on an internet coast. When he finished, he invited comments: these included demands not to move the public library, not to redevelop the castle square, not to redevelop the civic centre site, and not to build anything along the entire seafront for at least the next ten years. Perhaps, when seeking ideas for the future, it’s best not to ask a room filled with old people.

LET IT RAIN

YOU will be relieved to discover that the hot tub has been repaired. I’ve been in it four nights this week. Each time, it began to rain shortly after I immersed myself. From this, I draw the conclusion that having a hot tub in the garden is an even better guarantee of wet weather than having a dining set on the patio.

WHOSE STYLE, EXACTLY?

FROM time to time, a retired bloke is required to accompany The Current Mrs Feeney on shopping trips (I do not include going to the supermarket, which I regard as one of life’s necessities because it allows me to stock up on bars of dark chocolate). Monday this week was one of those times. As is invariably the case, TCMrsF visited several shops that, she informs me, are best described as ‘interior lifestyle’ establishments. All of these shops appear to have exactly the same stock on offer. Is there an infinite supply of people who find their lives are incomplete without a silver stag’s head, a white vase, or a scented candle?

BRAINWORK

I HAVE been working on my two poems (not poetry). I have spent several hours trying to devise various rhythm schemes (I’m not yet ready even to dare to think about rhymes.) If nothing else, I’m sure the exercise is good for the brain, and strikes me as a lot less pointless than sudoku puzzles.

WE ARE HOUSE-TRAINED

NEXT Door’s Cat is spending increasing time in our house. He arrives at our back door as soon as he sees a light in the kitchen. After a light breakfast, he sleeps on the kitchen armchair for the rest of the morning. He returns in the evening, when the process is repeated until I put him out around ten o’clock. I pretend that we have unofficially adopted him; I am aware that, in fact, the process is the other way round.

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