A brief travelogue.
There has been a great deal of fuss recently concerning the outdoors. The youth speak of it constantly. Winnie writes — uses? emits? — what one would generously call posts. Harvey takes notes on moths. It has all become rather a great deal.
Today, in the spirit of generosity and against my better judgement, I went outside.
It was fine. There was grass. The grass was, as ever, grass. There were noises in the bushes, which I, on principle, ignored. The Bald Man stood a polite distance away in case I needed help with anything, which I did not — though I appreciated the offer nevertheless.
Winnie was also outside, somewhere. I could hear her. I could always hear her. She was, I gather, having an opinion about a leaf.
I came back inside. I lay down on the rug, in my spot, the spot I have lain on for many years. I resumed.
I do not know what the fuss is. I am not amused by it. But the youth seem happy, and I am, in my way, content that they are happy. That, I think, is what the outdoors are for. Mmh.