Of Being a Bit Busted May 13, 2010
Posted by Jen in : Bit of a Mid-Life Crisis, Journal , 23 commentsNo. Despite its title, this is not a blog post about boobs. I do, however, seem to have been awarded a booby prize in the form of my brain. My Brian. Call it what you will. In fact, please, call it loudly. Whistle for it. Yoo hoo, Brian, where are you? Yes. Brian has, I’m sad to say, either broken down entirely or buggered orf without so much as a word. Scrambled brains are not conducive to, well, anything at all really. Perhaps I have The Stress. About what, though, I have no idea. I am not sleeping. I wake up at 3am and think about nonsense. I wander round the house in the dark, stuffing washing in the machine, being pounced upon by the ginger ninja. I check Facebook. I go back to bed, steeled for sleep. I think more thoughts. I think I would like pine nuts and mushrooms and feta cheese. I get up to look at things in the fridge. Get pounced upon once more.
Daytime is worse. Ooh, wow, gorgeous day I think, looking out of my office window. I might take the dog down to St Ouen’s Bay for a run later. And I smile to myself, joyfully, thinking how nice it is that I can do that after work. But I can’t. I don’t live in Jersey anymore. I haven’t done for 8 years or so. It’s as if someone is carving jigsaw-shaped holes in my thoughts. They are all jumbled up. More than usual, I mean. I am, quite honestly, beginning to fear for my sanity.
We won’t mention the headaches. Nurofen-ed up and snuggled down beneath my famous orange blanky on Saturday, I engaged in The Thing That Should Never Be Done. Yep, I googled my symptoms. And then I had a go at NHS Direct. Good Lord. Why does such a thing exist? Far better one just orders a Dictionary of Death from Amazon, pick a fate then lie down waiting to die.
Brains are like boomerangs. Aren’t they? Or bananas. Or perhaps I’m simply going bananas. Apples. Pears. Cor blimey, Mary Poppins. Now I’ll be talking like Dick van Dyke all day. Help. HELP!
Of Ooh and Aaaarrrgghhh April 28, 2010
Posted by Jen in : Allergic to Children, Bit of a Mid-Life Crisis , 26 commentsIt’s that time again. That joyous occasion looming next week on which I become another year wider wiser.
‘Don’t forget, Horrid Teens, that I’ll be expecting luxurious treats to demonstrate your love for me,’ I hinted helpfully over the weekend. ‘That means presents. Ok?’
‘Oh, I’m sure I can sort something out,’ No. 2 Son smiled confidently. ‘Is there anything you’d particularly like that I can find around the house?’
Why yes, actually. There’s nothing I’ve yearned for more than than some pre-worn rubber gloves and an out-of-date lime jelly.
Somehow, the conversation quickly turned to my being dead.
Son No. 1 looked grave. ‘Your headstone will have to bear the words “In her short life…”
‘A short life? How do you know I won’t live to be a hundred?’
He gave me that look. You know the one. The look that says How I despise you for your stupidity, Mother…
‘Even if you live forever, dear mama, you’ll still have had a short life on account of the fact that your legs’ (demonstrates approx. 2 inches with his chewed grubby fingers) ‘are only this long…’
Rotten sods. Here, have a fine joke:
What do you call a mother with very short legs?
.
.
.
A minimum.
Oh yeah. I’ve still got it. Just not very much of it. Thank God for my tall thoughts. Jelly and ice cream, anyone?
Of Weak-Willed Wibbles February 26, 2010
Posted by Jen in : Bit of a Mid-Life Crisis, Journal , 16 commentsOk. I have a confession. After a midweek catflappery incident, I did what I’d promised I wouldn’t do. I opened a bottle of red. Even before it was poured, I felt disappointed in myself. But there it sat, glowing richly in its glass, catching the light with its beautiful temptingness. I eyed it up warily, as you would a lover after a fight, not wanting to give in but relishing the inevitable. Then I poured it back in the bottle. The wine was French. It still is. You’d guess this if you could see it pouting petulantly on the kitchen worktop.
It’s shrugging off its rejection with a Gallic shrug. ‘So ziss ees it? You believe you will do wizzout me now?’ it asks, like a character from ‘Allo ‘Allo.
My grandfather was French. I can shrug with the best of ‘em. ‘Sorry love. It’s been fun, yeah?’
I wanted to write about the pain, torment and wranglings of avoiding the wine department in the supermarket. The utter hopelessness that has previously been the case when I’ve tried to give up. Stuff like that. But I can’t. It hasn’t happened. I even went to a party last weekend and enjoyed a single glass of champagne without crumbling out of control.
What I have learned though is that I like being a control freak even more than I like a glass of wine.
So. The writing? I’ve been struggling with shorts (the stories, not the clothes). I find them harder than novelling, since each word needs to perform properly. With the novel, well, I sort of think that churning out 500 words before work is good, since they can be polished up at the distant end. So long as I’ve produced something, I’m achieving something positive. Control-freak me has gone off this approach now. It’s a bit like when you walk around the office wearing an earnest expression and holding a piece of paper. It looks good but doesn’t *actually* achieve anything. (Carrying a torch when halfheartedly looking for something is another top tip. Even if it’s not dark, the torch makes the whole process just that little bit searchier somehow?)
I’ll have to carry on with the fiction in my bid for fame, won’t I? Channel 4 will have to stick with their plans to serialise some out-of-work soap actor battling the booze. Having me wander about with a cuppa, shrugging, however Frenchly, that I’m not really that fussed isn’t going to get the ratings.
My inner drama queen’s having a huff. ‘It’s all so utterly dull,’ she wails. She has even stamped her foot.
Right then. Things to do. Like deciding what to wear to The London tomorrow. I’m meeting someone for, ahem, drinks. Someone I went on a date with, er, 22 years ago? Today, I shall be practising holding my tummy in. I expect he’s busy with his comb-over. It’s not a date but, still, it’s never good when people think we’ve gone to seed, is it? Even 2 weeks on the wagon haven’t made me look 18 again. Oh dear. Pass the blue sherry.
Of Reckless Reinvention February 16, 2010
Posted by Jen in : Bit of a Mid-Life Crisis, Journal, Novel , 28 commentsI used to be terribly quiet you know. When I started work I felt perpetually sick, my stomach lurching every time the phone rang, so nervous was I of ever having to speak to anyone. I realised, somewhere along the line, that I was embarrassed about being so shy, so introverted. It wasn’t sweet, it was pathetic. So I pretended. I looked at how the other girls I worked with interacted with people and I copied them. I did it so much it became a habit. It became who I am.
Also, I used to smoke. A lot. I started when I was 15 – I thought it would make me cool. It didn’t. It made me cough. Trying to give up the fags after 40 a day for 5 years was a killer. Especially when combined with endless nights out. The new gregarious me took socialising to Olympic competitive levels. I did give up the ciggies though, not by ‘trying’ but getting up one day and telling anyone who’d listen that I didn’t smoke anymore. Instead of a cajoling ‘oh, go on’ they looked impressed and put their packets away. That was another new me. A me who was a non-smoker.
I don’t know why I’ve suddenly started thinking about all this stuff. It was, after all, twenty-odd years ago. I’ve been thinking about life too much lately. Making decisions. Mostly wrong ones, it seems, since I’m not that keen on them. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Being a practiced procrastinator, of course, tomorrow always marks the start of the rest of my life. But it’s time now. I decided on Sunday that tomorrow would indeed be the start of the rest of my life. If I could become a braver me, a non-smoking me by pretending and adopting those facades, then I can become a writer by doing the same. 6 weeks. That’s long enough for new habits to become traits. That’s how long I’ve given myself. There are other departments of myself I want to change too. There will be no wine, for a start. Oi! Stop laughing! There won’t. I mean, there isn’t.
Reinventing yourself in 6 weeks? Can it be done? Who knows? I’m doing it though. It appeals to my obsessive nature. And, best of all, it’s vital research into Novel II. I can’t tell you more than that or I’d have to kill you. And that would be a shame, wouldn’t it? Murderous urges weren’t on the list of ingredients for the new flavour of ‘me’.
Of Existential Excuses February 3, 2010
Posted by Jen in : Allergic to Children, Bit of a Mid-Life Crisis , 14 commentsI had an email yesterday. ‘You blog needs updating, Honey,’ it nudged. Another last night asked ‘Have you dropped off the edge of the planet or just the edge of reality?’. Hmmm.
I’d like to inform you, dear reader, that I have spent the last month immersed in my writing. Sadly, I can’t do that, ‘cos it’s not true. Bugger.
I don’t think it’s *actually* possible to drop off the edge of reality. Reality isn’t flat, for a start – if it is, you’re doing it wrong. My reality, it seems, is a deep, dark well. The drips of real life are fermenting, becoming viscous in the gloom. The droplets stick to me and smell a little bit manky. I can’t describe the smell. It’s sort of the opposite of Jelly Tots, if that helps?
There has been children stuff to contend with, amongst other things. Son No. 2 must choose his GCSE preferences by Friday. ‘I’ll have to take the higher level ICT course if I’m gonna be a games designer,’ he informed me wisely. ‘But if I’m no good at that, I might be an archaeologist instead.’ Er… what? Yes, that’s great, Son 2. I’d like to be a lion tamer and a hot air balloonist. I’m not though. Here, have a go in the Well of Reality. I do realise, of course, that lobbing your offspring into the pit of dashed dreams isn’t in the parental job description. Hmmm again.
Son 1 is choosing his A Levels. He is being very sensible, drawing up lists and combinations of amazing academic cleverness. In between these moments, he is studying hard for his GCSE’s. People of Sussex, if you hear the demented screams of ‘You’re not going to get an A-star in MSN chatting you know,’ that might be me. Oh, good God. When did I become that person?
Novel 2 is… well, I like the idea so much, I actually want to live the main character’s life. That’s a bit sad, isn’t it? This means one of two things: I’m just terribly excited about writing Novel 2 OR I’m sooooooo on the verge of a mid-life crisis.
*Goes off to weave daisies into her plaited hair…*
Yes, my brain is in a pickle. Oh dear. So long as the good and exciting bits at least manage to make a dent in the ‘reality’ and ‘plain daft’, it’s probably going ok though. Isn’t it?
Of Splendid Serendipity (and Sprawled Out at Square One) January 9, 2010
Posted by Jen in : Bit of a Mid-Life Crisis, Journal, Novel , 23 commentsWell then. Did I mention that Novel 2 will be jigging about in the little-known genre of Philosophical Comedy? The only laugh so far is that, as you will see (eyes right, if you please) the word count is now back to zero. But that’s ok. Until this morning, I had the setting, some dizzy but delectable dialogue and a handful of charming characters. Sadly, the characters were all wandering about with torches strapped to their heads in search of the missing plot. If editing means killing your darlings, I’ve just beheaded all mine and stuck ‘em out in the snow to decompose slowly but gruesomely.
Bizarrely, as I read an early email today from An Unassuming Artist which mentioned Scott’s Antarctic adventures, I clicked on a song in iTunes that I’d never heard before. I’ve no idea where it even came from. The song is now adopted as the theme song for when the novel becomes a film. Here you go… a song about Columbus and following your dreams… it’s pretty much what the novel’s about. I think. Er… sort of. Fictional adventures will be better than the real ones I’m currently craving. Plus I won’t have to go outside ever again. Anyway, the song has inspired me. So there.
In other serendipitous news, one of my New Year resolutions, since you were probably wondering, is to spend less money on food. Ok, we do like to eat well and love our treats and I do have two teens but, between the three of us, we’re munching through one hundred and fifty Great British pounds a week. I mentioned the new economy drive to Son 1.
‘I’m assuming there’ll be less buying of wine,’ he replied, employing the use of sardonic eyebrow positioning. Bloody sod.
The weather, however, has meant that we’ve had to exist for a week now on what we already had in store. There has been no M&S indulgency. Instead, I’ve thanked my lucky stars that I bought a whole lamb from my lovely boss last year which went from farm to my freezer in less than a day. I felt like a proper hardcore country girl that day, I tell you. I won’t confess of course that I *had* to check with him that it would be ‘chopped up’. I had visions of it crammed into the chest freezer like a stuffed toy, its legs poking out and its gentle eyes staring up at me in surprise. Instead of giving the dog the remains of a leg of lamb, I’m positively yearning for Leftover Lamb Biryani. Balti paste has changed my life forever. Who knew?
The barmy weather has also hooked me out of routine. I read in one of my hippy books, several years ago, that it’s important not to do the same things in the same way every day. If you have to take the same dog-walking route, walk it from finish to start instead. It’s amazing how different the world looks the other way round. Seriously, you should try it.
Right then. Back to the novel writing. Buying a camper van for storyline research purposes and inadvertent adventures? No, I’m not even thinking about that. Honest. Not much, anyway. Ahem.
Of Indecisive Identity October 9, 2009
Posted by Jen in : Bit of a Mid-Life Crisis, Journal, Novel , 25 commentsIs 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?
Of Perky Positivity August 19, 2009
Posted by Jen in : Bit of a Mid-Life Crisis, Journal , 21 comments“A goal is nothing more than a dream with a deadline” – Joe L. Griffith
I like that. It kind of works for me, you know? Since I came back from Jersey, I’ve been re-assessing my life a little bit. Making decisions about where I want to be in life and making inroads as to how to get there. My general feelings of dissatisfaction aren’t, I realise, geography-based but more within me. Reader, I have had a self-realisation: I get on my own nerves. That’s terrible, isn’t it? So I’ve been addressing the reasons for this – it’s just a shame we can’t simple parcel up our inadequacies in a Jiffy Bag, sellotape ‘em up and send them off somewhere. It’s a bit trickier than that, generally.
Anyway. One of the things I have started doing is actually saying ‘yes’ to things.
‘What are you doing while your boys are away?’ asked Lady Colleague last week.
‘Oh,’ I replied, trying to sound jaunty, ‘I’ll probably just recharge my batteries, read some books. Maybe have a bath.’
I mean, seriously, bloody hell! Am I 90 all of a sudden? No. I think you will find I am not. So I’ve started saying ‘yes’ to things. Actually *doing* things. The weekend found me zooming from my teeny tiny cottage in my teeny tiny car further than I had ever been before on such a solitary journey. I had initially reeled off the very long list of reasons why I couldn’t go to stay with the terribly ace Qwerty Queen and the equally accomplished Beleaguered Squirrel. I borrowed Tweed-Clad Colleague’s SatNav device and wheeeeeeee! Off I went. And, despite my worryings (will I end up in Scotland? will they realise that I am the dimmest of dimwits in their writerly midsts?) it was, of course, bloomin ace. We talked and talked and talked and had just a little drink or two which sort of made us talk even more, despite the Queenly One having to be poked in the arm when she fell asleep at the table during one of my more fascinating rambles. Maybe she was just concentrating – with her eyes closed – to fully appreciate the fascinating-ness? Yes, that must be it.
But yeah. I even went for a coffee on my own en route, something I never do either. This is the girl who didn’t know how to even put petrol in her car until a couple of years ago. And, I confess, I probably wouldn’t have had the coffee bravery either but for the fact that my weeing department was never going to last 350-odd miles. TMI? Nah, thought not.
And, I am going to buy my own SatNav gadgetery and have plentiful postcode adventures, Dave Gorman stylee. And, I have signed up for the next two (final) courses of my degree. This time next year, I will be finished and, quite likely, stressing out about a PGCE.
Until I purchase my super new SatNav, my journeys will still be gorgeously higgledy-piggledy. But I think I’m getting there… wherever ‘there’ may be.
