Skip to My Loo

Today started so well. I made a real effort put on lipstick for the school run because I was going straight to the hair salon after drop off. I also wore my new black Converse knockoff running shoes trainers. Rather than dump drop the children at school, I went in with The Boy to look for his missing music book.* As we walked across the parking lot car park he looked down at my feet and said, “Mum, you look really good in those trainers.” (Okay he was complimenting my feet, but I felt like a hip mum for one shining moment.)

Later, the receptionist at the hair salon greeted me with “Ooooh! I love your lippy.” Two compliments in forty minutes? And on a school morning? That never happens. She started to lead me upstairs, but I said I needed to “pop to the loo” first. As I locked the door I heard her bellow up the stairs:

“Nat, your client’s here. I’ll send her up in a minute, she’s just in the toilet.”

It took all I had not to whip the BATHROOM door back open and scream:

“NO, I’M BLOODY WELL NOT!!”

I try. I really do. I say flat instead of apartment, lift instead of elevator, torch instead of flashlight, garden instead of yard. I say knickers and trousers and jumper and cardigan. I eat biscuits, not cookies. I don my pinny to bake cup fairy cakes. When things go pear shaped, I try not to whinge. I take the mickey. I put my rubbish in the bin. I can do all of that, but I CAN NOT bring myself to say “toilet” to describe the entire room. I dunno, I  guess it’s just some sort of blockage.

What’s bugging you today? What word can you not say?

* Which we did not find. As we parted I said I would also go  look in Lost and Found Property. To which he replied “Do you know where it is?”  DUH! “Yes dear, I spend quite a bit of time there.”

(photo: Niall Kennedy)

Dog on the Blog

This half-term* we hosted a lodger dog-dger when The Hub offered a dog sitting service for friends who were going away.

Meet Maisie:

I know.

I resolved to harden heart, veins and arteries because we I do not want a dog. Not now. Not yet. So at the beginning of the week, I was all about ignoring the dog.

No, you three go ahead on the walk with Maisie. I have stuff to do here.

Mummy can I give Maisie her breakfast and tea** everyday?

If you mean that dry crap that makes me hurl whenever I smell it, then abso-fucking-lutely. . .  Sure, hon.

I did not look at that dog. I did not talk to it. I also made it clear that The Hub would be in charge of dog poo.

Mummy, Maisie just did a big poo in the garden.

Daddy’s in charge of poo, remember?

Dad’s gone to London, remember?

Shit.

As the week progressed, whenever I looked up, I’d see those eyes, boring into me, telegraphing an urgent message:

By the time I decoded it, I was a goner.

“We are the Borg. Lower your shields and surrender your ships . . . Your culture will adapt to service us. Resistance is futile.”

*shields down*

Who’s a good girl then?!! Who’s my girl?!! C’mon Maisie! Good girl!! Good girl! Walkies!***

* under the British school system children have a week off half way through the 12 week term to recharge their batteries drive their parents loopy. This was that week.

**not the liquid,but dinner in England.

***Underlining used to denote über enthusiastic high-pitched squealing, at least until Indy Clause suggests a better method.

Are You There Blog? It’s Me, Downith

Mister Blog?

Sir?

Uhm, I’ve got nothing today. Nothing.

I’m sorry, Downith, but that’s just not acceptable.

But, you know, we just moved and -

Oh for crying out loud. Enough with the move already. You think you’re the only one that ever moved? You need to get a post up. Now.

You can’t make me!

Oh yes I can.

Can not.

Can too.

You’re not the blog of me.

Well, technically, I am the blog of you. But leaving that aside, you are contractually obligated to post on Tuesdays and Fridays. It says so, right there on your Bio page.

 But I . . . 

 But s’not fair . . .

*runs and edits Bio to delete any reference to specific blogging days*

Ha!

*sharp intake of breath*

That’s it. Go to your room. No more blogging for you today. Got it?

Yeah, got it. Later, Blog.

Or, to put it another way, from now on I’ll be blogging when I damn well feel like it.

Moving Conversations

For Sarah, who wanted more detail:

Before

Mummy, what are you doing?

I’m packing up your toys.

Noooo. I still want them.

Relax. I’m just packing them for the move. 

But I want them now!

Do you know what this is? I found it in the kitchen drawer. 

*I hand it to The Hub who turns it over carefully in his hands.*

I’m not sure.

Okay, I’ll bin it.

No! I might need it for something.

During:

Where do you want this box?

Over there.

Where do you want this sofa?

Over there.

Could the lads get some tea, please?

When are we going home?

This is home now, remember?

Oh yeah.

Where do you want -

- Over there.

Would it be possible to get some more tea for the lads, please?

Can Max come over to play?

Not today.

What’s for supper?

Takeaway.

I’m bored.

Is there a toilet the lads can use, please?

After

Where’s my DS?

I don’t know.

Have you seen my good shoes?

Yes .

Where?

I’m not sure.

Mummy, how come there’s no closets in this house?

Because the fuc.. I mean, they f . . f .  . forgot to build them. Yeah, that’s what I was saying.

Mum, the hamper’s overflowing. You should do some laundry.

!!! (Nothing. I had nothing for that one.)

Why doesn’t the television work?

It’s not hooked up yet.

Can I go on the computer ?

There’s no internet.

Why not?

It’s not hooked up yet.

When are we getting the internet back?

I don’t know. Soon. Ask Daddy.

Dad, when are we getting the internet back?

In a couple of weeks.**

What?

What?

What ?!!

**never move and change service provider at the same time, people.  Never.

A Brief History of Mine

I’ve been wondering how I might neatly summarize the events of the last two months – packing, moving, the holidays, unpacking . . .

And then I saw it, staring out at me from the supermarket shelves:

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Life vs Writing

1. Your son sits down for supper tea and says:

Sandwiches? Again?

2. You’re driving your daughter home from school and ask how the violin lesson went.

Mrs B had to clip my nails before I could play.

(You derive some comfort from the fact that Mrs B was in possession of nail clippers in the music room. Clearly you are not the only crap parent.)

3. Unexpectedly, after years of looking, you and your husband find a house you both can love. When the offer is accepted, your immediate reaction (which you wisely do not share) is “Shit! We’re moving? Now? That’s really gonna mess with my writing.”

I’m busy stressing planning our move, so will be taking a break from blogging for awhile. Do you think the FTF bracelet does packing?

Spit and Polish

If I wasn’t fully aware of it before, it’s become abundantly clear this month that there are two distinct processes involved in writing: drafting and editing. Or, as I like to call it, spit and polish.

Ever since I declared My Own Private NaNoWriMo  I’ve been trying to spit out words at an alarming rate. Part of this process has required me to ignore aggressively shout down the voices in my head my internal editor. Here’s a flavour of how that went down yesterday:

Oh God, this is such rubbish! Why do I bother?

No it isn’t, keep going.

But it’s crap!

Shut up. Keep writing.

But it’s shite.

Shut! It!

But…

Actually, you know what. Fine. You want to call it shite? It’s shite. Okay? Satisfied? You write shite. Happy? Good! But don’t think that gets you off the hook, little missy. Oh no! You have to keep writing that shite. Spitting is about quantity. You got that? Good. Now  quit yer whinging, shut yer gob and spit. 

And then there’s polish – more genteel, less shouty. Polish is all about the quality. You select a word, let it catch the light, put it under your loupe, give it a buff and a shine, then replace it, pausing to adjust a comma.

Trouble is, spit and polish don’t go together. After I won that contest, there were only 1500 words that mattered. I polished those words like a 50-year-old man with a 50 foot yacht and a mid-life crisis. I changed “said” to “asked.” I had a trusted few read it, then I tweaked it some more. The table on which Rachel placed her father’s atlas was upgraded  from pine to oak. And on and on and on.

If I hadn’t sent that chapter off, I would’ve worked on it all month. So I did. Basta! That ship has crossed the pond, hopefully with taut sails and gleaming brass rails.

Never mind spitting, I’m feeling so queasy I think I’m gonna spew . . .

**UPDATE** I”ve had a few (premature) emails of congratulations. Just so we’re clear – I have NOT finished the novel, nor do I expect to this month although I am spitting it out. It’s the first chapter that I polished off.

(Photo: Mag3737)