A simple, quiet Sunday.
Not that ambitious a plan when one comes down to it. One that most would think within their power to achieve given an empty house, a lack of chores, and nothing of any real import to complete. One that was progressing with real promise throughout the earlier hours of the day, and for once, it seemed as though a plan had finally come together.
Ahhh how frail the thread that ties the fabric of our world, and what horrors wait those who indulge in hubris.
Now before much more can be said here, one must understand what friendship means in the small villages that dot Scotland. It means that one can leave one's doors unlocked with little or no fear of things walking off by themselves. In fact one learned exactly how honest and forthright these people are one summer not long ago, when this house was left unlocked, unbarred, unguarded, for the dog was off to the kennel, while for a fortnight it's inhabitants sported in warmer waves and indulged in the novelty of sunshine. Upon return we found our milk delivery had been resumed that morning, for two new pints were waiting in the fridge, and all our mail had been neatly stacked on the hall table. It must be taken into account, that in villages the likes of this one, the 'newcomers' have had their mortgage paid off for ten years, and two of their children now own farms down the road.
One takes one's time forging friendships, but once they've been founded, they allow great liberty to those within the group. For example, one can expect a friend to simply walk into one's house without knocking, during civilised visiting hours, and with a loud clap on the letterbox accompanied by a loud 'Halloooo!' during those hours outside. It means that one is expected to take part in village fetes. It means that on any given afternoon, someone can walk in, disrupt one's work and train of thought, while by right expecting the kettle to be put on, the rolling tin to appear, and a natter to ensue. And it's a given that once one has appeared, within an hour there are three of four, and the odd bottle of ale or two, and the ubiquitous pot of tea, and there goes the day..
A simple Sunday, quiet, unstructured, was where we came in. We are this much closer to the point, the thrust of this addition to this peripatetic collection.
As afrementioned, the morning went well, and some fair amount of work was actually being accomplished when, just as the one o'clock news began on Classic FM, came the unmistakeable sounds of the front door opening, an announced 'Hallooo in there', and the sundry noises accompanying a small crowd as they parade through one's door.
Ahh it was all bonhommie and hale fellow and such, while coats were hung and gloves and such deposited on the hall table. It was smiles and general contentment that radiated from the group until one by one, their faces assumed a stoney look of incredulity, as they passed through into the lounge, orliving room if you'll have it.
One wondered had the dog died suddenly in front of the fire, so hushed and shocked seemed the atmosphere..
Now, the point of this piece.
Came a solitary voice, from the wife of a friend. "You've not got the telly on..."
Ahh jaysus, it was a statement made as though an indictment, so horrific was the idea that I'd been out of my bed for over six hours, passed through the lounge on my way to the kitchen several times for those pots of tea which continue in an uninterrupted flow even when one is alone, and had never even reached for the remote control.
This is the problem with life one finds in places even so far removed from the mainstream as this. People are no longer willing, much less content, to be alone. To have only the radio for company, although for the life of me I can't really see the difference between having the telly on and listening to the disembodied voice of Eamon Clarke from the other room, and having the radio on and listening to some far more sensible music.
But there it was. It was expected that even if I was listening to the radio, a perfectly respectable thing to do, one would still turn the television on and turn the sound down.
Just for company.
The thought strikes me. We here have only, for themost part, 5 channels to choose from, and we are suffering this 'companionship' syndrome. What it would be like where there are more than 200 choices of vicarious experience, only makes the mind boggle.
Now, add to the equation this machine we're using at this very moment.
Ray Bradbury has been proven a prophet before.