Call me sentimental, but I miss door knockers,
Bakelite phones, and oak rocking chairs, let alone
tapping out a stanza on a Remington to the sound
of a valve radio tuned to the BBC Third Programme
in the hope of making a few guineas for another stack
of cloth-bound volumes, forever destined to gather
saudade.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Once upon a time, as a young journalist in post-communist Poland, I regarded the BBC as the golden standard of journalistic independence and professionalism. So you can imagine my disappointment when, after emigrating to the UK and making Scotland my new home, I realised that nothing could be further from the truth—the emperor-is-naked moment being the 2014 Scottish independence referendum. For that reason, among others, I don’t have a telly, and I don’t need a TV licence. And yet that wretched body keeps nagging me over and over again to buy one. There’s no way in hell I’ll ever do that, so stop distracting me from reading Lytton Strachey by the window. Actually, here is a thought: why not invent a licence for the window view? But know that—though for some reason I am eagerly awaiting the linden tree to bloom, as if the scent of the blossoms could exorcise the exhaust fumes—I’d rather draw the curtains than pay you a penny. Of course, you could always make bookshelves taxable by length or, better yet, charge a word fee, though in that case, I’m not so concerned: I don’t talk much, and my writing is usually concise.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 