No, it’s still not finished…

Things have been busy, and strange, and sometimes, strangely busy. Perhaps I am making excuses? Either way, the WIP is still awaiting the first stage of completion. Soon, I promise myself; it is coming together.

In the meantime, we’ve been to Devon, and had a lovely weekend of doing not very much apart from lolling in a hot tub with a glass of red while watching the swallows weave across the sky. I like to think that if we didn’t live in Gloucestershire, we’d live somewhere in Devon; two very different rural idylls. We did also watch the amusing culture-kitsch that is Eurovision; I have to confess to being one who doesn’t take it remotely seriously; I would rather have liked Moldova’s two-tone rapping gnomes to win.

Along with the glass-in-hand type of lolling, goes losing-oneself-in-reading, and I did. I got well and truly lost in the late 18th Century world of Dejima and Nagasaki as evoked in The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, and since emerging, have been wondering what on earth I might read read next. To immerse myself immediately in everything else David Mitchell has written, would I fear be a distraction too far… indeed, since writing that last sentence, life itself has been a distraction too far – I’m completing this post over a week after I started it <hangs head in shame>. Well, I say ‘life’, what I mean is someone else’s life, 8 years or so of Stephen Fry’s, to be precise. Having read The Fry Chronicles – out now in paperback in a bookshop near you! – I have since stepped back in time with Colette’s Cheri… but I will be girding the metaphorical loins, and writingwritingwriting. I bloody well must.

In the meantime, the inestimably lovely Claire King has posted a wonderful cheerleading post that has filled me – and a GREAT many others –  with heart and hope and other helpful words beginning with H.

I’ll be in London for a few days over half term, with my daughter; another thing to look forward to, another thing to take me away from writing…

That’ll do.

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Bank Holiday Blues

Easter; when my personal consumption of chocolate doubles, or even triples, for the space of three days. Seratonin kick aside, all this brown sweet stuff this year has made me feel quite tired. I must confess to looking forward to a few days free of the stuff; maybe even a week? Hmmm. We’ll see.

My daughter on the other hand, has been loving it all. Well, she’s six; it goes without saying. Amongst the egg shaped bounty that  Eostre’s hare has brought her, are two Smarties eggs. It wasn’t that long ago that Nestlé finally ditched the artificial colours/flavours rubbish that they used to overload their product with, so in the spirit of enquiry I screwed up my eyes to have a peer at the ingredients list. Safflower, lemon and hibiscus, ok. Radish, black carrot and red cabbage – seriously?! Sorry, but that just sounds wrong. Another thing that feels wrong, to me at least, is that easter eggs no longer have things inside them. Sterile chocolate eggs, robbed of even the pretence of a semantic link with the festival of rebirth to which they are commercially linked. Bah, humbug.

I used to enjoy bank holidays, once upon a time, when I had a more or less full-time job. But that was before my daughter arrived. Now they’re just days not quite like any other, when I generally have less time to myself. If my husband were not on the career-path he has chosen, and worked ‘normal’ days like most people, then we might be able to do the family day thing. On the other hand, because he has to work shifts serving and protecting, we get our family days when the majority are having ‘normal’ days, so there is less pressure to conform to the idea that We-All-Must-Enjoy-Ourselves-Because… mentality.  My daughter and I did have a jolly walk up to the Co-Op, to get milk, playing the naughty gnome game, hopping, and looking out for new signs of spring. (The naughty gnome game involves looking for  – obviously imaginary – naughty gnomes, hiding under parked cars, running up garden paths, climbing trees, etc. They always have mismatched hoods and cloaks, and are always about to do something bad, like steal milk bottles, break windows, kidnap dogs, flood drains. Once we spot them, the King of the Good Gnomes- who always have matching hoods and cloaks – comes after them, puts them in a cardboard box, and then throws them in prison.) On the way home I twisted my ankle, which alarmed my daughter. How did I do it? No idea. It just happened. It’s strapped up now in a tubi-grip bandage; the swelling is beginning to go down. Isn’t it remarkable how efficacious red wine and chocolate can be, when applied medicinally?

And the celandines are out at last, golden flowers starring the uncut grass of parks and verges.

There’ll hopefully be some progress on the writing front, next time.  Right now I’m too stuffed with chocolate to think.