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.
