Mama's Birthday and the Briny Deep

This morning I woke up at around eight o'clock. I remembered right away that it was Mama's birthday, and serenaded her with "Happy Birthday" as she sat at the computer (Papa was also up; the rest were sleeping). Then I went on a round of errands; I bought cake from the bakery (Ge.'s suggestion) and pink roses from the florist's (my own idea). T. had suggested doing the dishes for Mama, but after doing one round (where Mama dried the dishes anyway) my enthusiasm waned.

After Papa's return to the university we feasted on the cake and pickles and hot cocoa/ovaltine. The dish stacks in the background did not impede our enjoyment of the lunch in the least, whereas the absence of Gi. -- who is in the countryside -- was felt. During the subsequent interlude I read online books and a nineteenth-century periodical, and played the piano. As far as music goes, it was not one of my "genius days;" but in terms of phrasing, lightness, fluency, etc., I played many of Mendelssohn's "Lieder ohne Worte," and Chopin's waltzes and polonaises*, and Mozart sonata movements much better than I ever did before. The usual sampling of late Beethoven sonata movements, Chopin nocturnes, and the piano part of "The Swan," also went well.

In the evening W., Si., A. and O. visited. They brought red wine, refreshments, and presents; Mama also prepared refreshments; and so we all gathered in the corner room for a convivial round. After a while a strong wind blew up outside, not only at the level of the oak outside the window, but also at the level of the greyish clouds that moved swiftly across the sky. At one point I went to the balcony door to feel the wind, and I was pleasantly surprised to detect a distinct sea-smell. It instantly reminded me of my grandfather's apartment at Sidney; some of the others didn't particularly like the strong odour of decomposing or at least warm seaweed that sometimes met us when we visited there, but I never minded it even at its worst, and I've felt rather nostalgic about it. Besides, I like the sea in general anyway. When Papa said that the wind had travelled for about seven hours to here from the ocean, I instantly pictured (in my mind's eye) a turbulently gusty scene at the North Sea coastline: powerful white-capped waves crashing down with flying spray onto the sand. At Sidney there was a breakwater where we could see that kind of wave at close quarters: we stood at the railing and watched broad waves roll swiftly in, then smash up against the concrete, and finally disintegrate into splendidly high plumes of froth that swept over the corner. Anyway, I could reminisce about the sea for a long time, but I won't. (c:

* The polonaises included the one in A major; there is a recording of Arthur Rubinstein's rendition on YouTube.

P.S.: In the previous blog post "Art of the Id," "garish" should be replaced with "gaudy."