My summer of love

Just seen a very good modern art house film - my summer of love - worth a look and in blockbusters at the moment - its gotme thinking about being at boarding school for 12 years - strange - one just has to lkook at dead poets society and you will get one side of things - another country is another film that add flavour - but especially also the film i saw tonight.... on the ever more domestic front i have just been given a double bed by my friend - dont know which room of three to stay in - perhaps we could have a vote?

the back bedroom is light in the morning (like a summer room really) but next door likes to play drums and it reverberates -

the front room is very much the master bedroom, large imposing, nassiuve desk - i.e. the ideal place to put new bed...the only trouble is the room is very bright and little sleep will be had - unless i get some blackout curtain (9.99 in dunelm i believe)

at the momnet the compromise seems to be the middle bedroom which is the smallest and to tell you the truth was going to use as a study...but we shall see

oh dear - it seems I am becoming more domesticated as we speak - thenew cutlery speak wonders of course and im sure most of this will be read tongue in cheek.

Anyway heres a poem i read at a-level by seamus heaney - it might be worth it in the end

Digging

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.

Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.

My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.