On feeling a bit crotchety July 29, 2007
Posted by Jen in : Domestic Doings, Journal , 15 comments
Hey diddly dee, a kitchen of widdle for me…
Ahem. I have a few concerns, Doctor. Let me explain:
Now that I am officially non-working, my self-imposed confinement and daily doings of all things domestically un-goddesslike are possibly not going to provide the stimulation I require to become a sort-of writer. Today’s examples:
I get up early to write. Discover my very own Windermere in the kitchen, created by stinking hound. Swear a bit. Drink tea to make eyes open. Think that I have been up for 40 minutes but still not written any words but am too busy thinking up swear words and mean thoughts about the dog. Clean up puddle of piddle. Feel peckish. Consider whether to have toasted muffin with sardines (fishy fun to fend off mental incapacity) or croissant (happiness inducing and bloody well deserved after aforementioned wee-based mopping but a bit fattening). Eat muffin with squashed fish. Then eat two croissants with kids. Feel fat and consider that I may have to go on Jonathon Ross instead of Porky Parky when I am a bestselling novelist as he has a big settee that will accommodate my mysteriously-increasing arse. Think that getting wedged into Parky’s chrome and leather chair and having to be winched out by firemen will not be a good start to my life as a glam but rather slightly lardy writer.
Hardly sparkling, is it? The kitchen floor is though. Perhaps I will write about that… no? Really??
A New Chapter July 20, 2007
Posted by Jen in : Domestic Doings, Journal , 16 commentsWell, that’s it. As from next Wednesday, I will officially be non-working. Aaaarrrghhh!! My diet as a poverty-stricken writer will consist largely of fluff, Marmite and the odd snifter of sweet sherry. Other than that, I have only one major concern: What if I have to fill in a form asking my occupation? Or if someone asks me ‘what do you do?’
I can’t very well go round telling people I’m a writer; it doesn’t seem right. It’s not what people like me do. Maybe, if I were a braver me, I would just say it. Maybe, by saying it, I would become it. Perhaps I will avoid talking to people and filling in forms until I’ve got the hang of it.
Lovely bf is, as you can imagine, devastated that I will no longer be able to regale him with daily tales of the Retail Hell car park machine and the gormless goings-on of the users thereof.
And for you, dear reader, I will have only snippets of my domestic doings to jollify you in between accounts of what a rubbish writer I might be. Ah, why wait? I hear you cry. Oh, ok then…
There’s a mouse in my garage. A dead mouse, to be precise. I don’t know what it died of - performing little rodent autopsies is NOT what I will be doing as a sort-of writer. (Hmmm, ’sort-of writer’. That could work.) But, if there’s a dead mouse, it is likely that there are rather more lively ones in residence too. Gulp.
Me: ‘Number 1 Son, please come and stand in the rain and hold the garage door open while I put this washing into the tumble drier.’
Number 1 Son: ‘Can’t you just use the hook to hook it open? It’s raining!’
Me: ‘No, because if a mouse runs up my pyjama bottoms and I faint, you will have to save me.’
Note to self: During time as a non-working sort-of writer, be sure to wear elastic bands around the bottom of jim-jams to guard against miscellaneous mouse antics.
