Wordsley, Stourbridge, England: 1 degree, cold and overcast.
Today has been a good day. Although it is bitterly cold and damp, it has turned out to be very good for many reasons.
I dispatched my mother by taxi to the hospital at 7:00 a.m. She will undergo a knee surgery., The doctor said her knee was utterly shattered and would need to be replaced with a prosthesis.
My mother asked me to wake her up at 6:00 a.m., so I got up at 5:45 to get her ready. Her bag was already packed, and a taxi was waiting for her outside the house at precisely 7. She seemed to be calm about everything, and since she went to the hospital, I haven’t had any news from her yet.
My mother gave me a number to call before she left. I tried calling it, but all I got was a recorded message instructing me to call another number, which doesn’t work either. If there had been a problem, I would have been informed, so I’m not too worried.
After my mother left, I worked on the computer and then went out to deliver a letter in Wollaston. It was bitterly cold outside. I could have taken a bus or a taxi, but I preferred to walk along the canal; it’s more pleasant and it reminds me of my childhood. The letter I delivered contains my banking details, which I will use to receive money from my late uncle, who included me in his will.
My uncle insisted on including me in his will. I had sent my personal information a year before he died, and it has been almost three years since he passed away, and I have heard nothing yet. The executor of my uncle’s will is his autistic stepson, a civil servant in his late 50s to early 60s. I like Alan, I remember him from 40 years ago when I lived in Stourbridge and would regularly visit my uncle.
I know that my uncle had had some problems with the stepchildren from his third marriage with his late wife, who had died 2-3 years before him. I was never very close to her because she was a vile and toxic woman, not just with me but with everybody, including, I think, my uncle.
To me, it was clear that he was only really with her because he was old and needed a woman to care for him. My uncle was an important male father figure in my life, in some ways more than my own father; however, like everyone, he had his faults.
I hope I receive the money that my uncle included for me in his will, he said that it was little, I don’t really care, any little helps, specially living in Brazil and how economically everything in the world is today, and besides, it will be more for my daughters than me. I will pass most of it on to them to help them along their way.
So, I promptly delivered my letter in hand to Alan, my uncle’s stepson.
He was very polite with me, but something was strange, not right; I’m not sure exactly what, and it wasn’t related to his autism. I feel that there seems to be a lack of cooperation and transparency, which I hope is just my misinterpretation or nerves of the situation, and that it does not turn out to be what I expect.
After giving him the letter, I felt relieved and at ease, knowing that something more had been done. I walked back to Wordsley, where I stopped at the local cafe and had a tea and a coffee whilst I wrote.
One of the attendants/baristas, a woman probably in her late 40s, blonde, short, and for me extremely cute, has impressed me a lot since I started going there. Over time, her layers are being peeled away, showing me more and more what an attractive person she is.
It seems strange to arrive home to an empty house. I think it has been almost a year since I lived alone and not shared with somebody else, the last time was when I lived in Rua Duvivier in Copacabana. Since then, I lived with Yasmin and Nalva before coming to Brazil and now with my mother.
I like to be alone; I enjoy my own company, but this time it seems a little strange. Is it because I’m in England and not in Brazil, or is it because I’m getting old and that I need company, a partner?
I made some sandwiches for lunch, worked on the computer and gave a few classes. It is still slow for classes, but it is normal at the beginning of the year.
I’m not a great admirer of American humour. As I am English, English humour is very dry, ironic, or even sarcastic, and is considered some of the best in the world. This is why the majority of the head offices of major advertising agencies are based in London. Because of this, I haven’t followed American humour really that closely. I have liked Chris Rock for a long time, but in the last year or so, I have come to recognise the brilliance of Dave Chappelle.
I didn’t particularly enjoy his craft at first, and I still don’t enjoy his early work. However, his recent work over the last couple of years is fantastic; he really is the goat. What makes him different from other stand-up comedians is the art of storytelling that is incorporated into his jokes, which also draws my attention to his subtlety in the jokes, which everybody identifies with and loves. I watched a Netflix special by him, and I haven’t laughed so much in a long time.
What a great day!
In bed by 11.00 p.m.
Thank you.
Thanks for reading this blog post. Please explore my other posts and share your thoughts in the comments section.
Richard
