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Of Defiant but Definite Deadlines October 28, 2009

Posted by Jen in : A210, General Shame , 19 comments

I can see into the future.  Did you know that?  I foresee that Friday will find my back aching, mainly after the exertions of limbo-ing manically under Thursday’s deadline for my first A210 essay.  The thing I love about deadlines is the focus they generate. Focus, mainly, on doing anything other than the job in hand.  I’ve taken the day off today. The plan of action? That I spend last night ploughing through the rest of Pride and Prejudice before devoting today to writing a fascinating essay about narrative voice & dialogue.  This will be completed before I whizz in circles like WonderWoman, emerging with style and polish before heading off, with a sense of accomplishment, to be entertained by Simon Amstell.

In reality? I was accosted, as I frequently am, by a dose of the Rampant Randoms.  I ended up discussing furniture with a friend, decorating long distance before being treated, by phone, to a live double bass and voice rendition of Fly Me to the Moon. I then fell asleep with Jane Austen in my lap and forgot to make the bread. So far, so bad. But sofa, so good for recipient of furniture-buying advice.  This morning, I’ve done two loads of washing, swigged plentiful tea, made bread and contemplated, if one professes to live in a higgledy piggledy teeny tiny cottage, as I do, just how much higgle and piggle can be crammed in at any one time.  The answer, after some nifty quadratic formula and a little rubbing of my academic beard brought forward the response: quite a bit really.

You may deduce from this, dear reader, that I shall be having a little cry quite soon.  So I’m going to get on with it.  Once I’ve worked out how long it would take to ride to Brighton on the back of a tortoise, in the rain, whilst wearing a bowler hat.  Procrastination?  Me?? Get away with you.  I’m not even blogging.  See?

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Of Indecisive Identity October 9, 2009

Posted by Jen in : Bit of a Mid-Life Crisis, Journal, Novel , 25 comments

Is there a doctor in the house?  A brain doctor, to be precise.  I’m afraid mine has broken down.  I have made the disastrous discovery that there is a large leap in mental activity (or the lack thereof) between vegging with Emmerdale and a drop o’ the red stuff and doing academic study.  I know.  It’s really quite a revelation.  Last weekend, my latest OU module began.  Needless to say, after a week, I am a week behind.  I am, if nothing else, consistent.

Life’s a funny old game, isn’t it?  A couple of Sundays ago, I stood on the sidelines of a rugby pitch in Haywards Heath, surrounded by posh mums and hungover dads.   As the opposition limbered up, grunting and stomping their way round the field like inarticulate gladiators, I caught the eye of one of ‘our’ mums.  ‘Oh my God, just look at ‘em.  They’re massive.  They’re gonna kill our babies,’ she worried.  We gave each other theatrical looks and sighed, Britishly.  And then our own little darlings came out.  Oddly, they were just as huge, with hairy legs and six packs.  When the bloody hell did that happen?

Now, I’m sure there was a point to all this.  The sort of point I’m contemplating for Novel 2.  Perhaps along the lines of us not noticing change, because of its sneaky nature. The trickiness of time.  But perhaps we don’t see ourselves clearly until we’re reflected through others’ eyes?  I’ve met some new people recently, made some new friends.  I have even talked to people in ‘real life’.  And, of course, it’s weird to see yourself as other people see you.  I study literature. I’m writing a novel.  I play in an orchestra.  If I didn’t know me, I’d be quite scared of me.  And scaring yourself by the sneakiness of change and time is weird.  And more surprising than a sudden onslaught of grey hairs and an urge to listen to The Archers.

What I’d like to know, in the interests of plain nosy parkerness novelicious research is this: what single aspect of yourself do you think comes across most strongly to other people that you haven’t noticed for yourself?  Go on.  Indulge me.  I’m intrigued.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, I’m not the bird who was talking drunken twaddle in my local last Friday.  No.  That was someone else.  Tonight, Matthew, I’m going to be swanning about at the Sevenoaks Literary Festival, listening to the rather marvelous Patrick Gale talk about clever things.  Jealous much?

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