A bookmark

I feel silenced every time I think of this blog. There are so many things I want to say that my fingers get stuck with the enormity of it all and I can’t form the words. I don’t feel very witty anymore; I worry that the folk who came here to be entertained may yawn instead and this time there's no rabbit waiting in the hat to pull out as a surprise.

I need to make some changes with my life and as of yet can’t find the gumption to do it. (Who stocks gumption? I need to order some pronto.) I have to take control of the wheel, but instead I laze backwards and let the ship steer where it may, into that choppy sea, onto those rocks, adrift under the sun. I’m still chipping away at my story, still excited by what I’m writing, but I feel a constant underlying weariness to my days, which is probably to do with lack of decision-making. And yet there are so many things I am plotting behind the scenes – create a website, do this, sell that, make this, write that – maybe thinking of these things at once has caused me to press all the keys on a mental typewriter and create a jam.

The other stumbling block is the rise of Hugely Busy with the 9-5 job and the enormous length of time I spend squashed into random smelly armpits while commuting on the tube. I’ve had my job for four years now and completely notice the difference in outside work creativity – when I started I had a lot more evening energy to write, draw, and blog. Now my best writing time is always at the weekend, and the longer I spend there, finding those words, the less I can devote to words here. I tweet as that’s easy, but blogging is more of a commitment, for me, anyway.

So think of this blog as my online bookmark. It's closed for now but will open again one day soon, and I’ll find my place again.
J x

Per aspera ad astra!

Through difficulties to the stars!

Where's me hands?!

It’s been very hard to write anything over the last couple of months, and testimony to that is the lack of blog posts. When you’re feeling sad your fingers are sad too; they droop and wilt over the keyboard, complain of headaches when they strike the keys, and refuse to type anything other than exceedingly bad poetry. But when writing stories is the thing that seems to complete you; that defines how you see yourself; that is at once relaxing and fun and provides escapism, then sooner or later it’ll be time to pick up the metaphorical quill again.

There is so much to say and perhaps I’ll soon catch up relaying marvellous events – there was a brilliant vintage hen party complete with Victory rolls and garnished by the Best of British Swing Ball (a dance, not a sport). There was an amazingly gorgeous wedding in a 15th century Royal Palace. There has been much riffling through vintage fairs to find gorgeous dresses (for above wedding), a visit to Somerset that sparkled through the rain-drops, a boy-band concert that was a nostalgic teenage time-warp, and dancing – much dancing, with a 1940s rock-step and Charleston happy feet.

But there have also been many moments of reflection and wondering about my Curriculum Vitae – my journey (course) through life. Oh, so much Latin today! Partly I’m excited for the future – all those possibilities – but equally I’m fearful, and that’s the problem. There’s a pesky internal scuppering that seems to go on behind the scenes and I’m sick of it! Begone, scampering scupperers.

And what about the never-ending story? What about The Novel? The good news is that I did a read-through a few days ago and like it more than ever. The better news is that I’ve booked two whole days off the 9-5 to write my fingers (and thumbs) off, which is coming up just around the nearest weekend-shaped corner. Bring it on, I say. Let's visit those stars.

Out of focus

I am struggling a little these days. My focus has slipped and run away.

Run! Run for the hills!

Do you ever feel like someone else has your life? I look at others and think – hey! How come you’re living my life? That should be me over there, doing those things. Instead I’m here, doing... well, not much. Not much at all.

‘How can she say she doesn’t do much when her blog details amazing nights out?’

Yes, it’s a conundrum, but easily answered. Those nights are the rare stars twinkling high in a sky the texture of a course scratchy blanket. I arrange things to do because otherwise I’d bury my head under the blanket and never come out. I know my tendencies. I like to hide away.

The rewrite continues (well, I like to think it does. In my head it gallops. In real life it snorts steam and stares balefully from the stalls.) However, I fear it’s the wrong rewrite. I think perhaps there is a third, better, way to tell this story, which would mean yet again grabbing the edges of my Word document and giving it a shake, letting the sentences settle down again in a new pattern. I don’t want to do this. I’d rather lick the road, go on a five-mile hike on a hot day with a pail of defrosting fish, or ride a home-time bus surrounded by shouting territorial schoolboys with moustaches. But it’s an idea. A thought. A nasty, prickly, jabbing sort of thought, true, but it’s there all the same.

(I believe in the story, but don’t trust myself in the way I'm telling it.)

I know what’s wrong. The core of me is desperately unhappy, despite me shoring it up with bent lollipop sticks and cheap Primark jumpers. This is reflecting in my health, which has been annoyingly whiney of late, and feeling low is impacting on my focus. I know it’s all connected but still can’t seem to do what’s needed to make a change. It’s because dem big things, life-changes. But it’s getting closer for me to make some decisions and, really, it should be a simple one to make.

I have to choose to be happy.

Limbo land

Thank you for bearing with me over the last month of sporadic blogging (apart from the Two Lost Followers. Oh dear. *waves*). I now have a computer that doesn’t crash, although I fear the bad old computer has led me into nasty habits, such as:

• Turning computer on and wandering off to do something else while it slowly rumbles into life
• Watching computer freeze on the Internet/Word/Everything and wandering off to do something else
• Looking at computer, sighing, and wandering off to do something else

You can see there’s a pattern emerging here and it’s not congruent with writing (straight onto the computer, at any rate). It also doesn’t help that I’m living in the land of limbo.

For various reasons, this and that, la-la-la, limbo land has been a nice place for me to be. Och (she says, reverting inexplicitly to Scottish), it’s hard to explain. I’d have to sit you down with a glass of wine and flail my hands for a while. But the easiest explanation is that nothing changes (very much) in limbo land and there can be times in life when this feels attractive. The sun rises; the rain falls. The train is early; the train is late. You go to work; you come home. It is a place to regroup energy, a safe haven, a retreat. But stay too long and that energy will sap, the haven will suffocate and the retreat will pull up its mossy time-heavy drawbridge and dim the exit signs.

I need to get out of limbo land. It’s time for bold decisions – decisions about where to live, what to do. Ever read those Choose Your Own Adventure books? The ones where page 16 leads to happy-ever-after and page 20 leads to being eaten by a Minotaur? That is exactly what I need to do. (But not the Minotaur bit. I’m done with Minotaurs.) I need to start choosing my own adventure again.

In Need of a Life Plan

I often find it hard to sleep. Going to sleep is not a problem; staying asleep is the thing I find tricky. Thoughts amplify at night; they swirl and gather in corners. But those dark early hours, while the world slumbers and urban foxes bark beyond the window, are the best times to think of plans. In fact, the Grand Author Plan. (Oh yes, I haz one.)

I haven’t been writing much recently and it’s been worrying me. So far, since October, I have written three short stories (more about one, later), fiddled a bit with the novel, and thought up some ideas for more. That’s it... and it’s not enough, not nearly enough. My energy levels dissipate when I commute a long way and work full-time; this time last year I could do it – work during the day and write in the evenings – but now I come home and am fit for nothing. I try to stir myself to be creative but it is like stirring a pot of treacle, and the tired part of me wants to be left alone.

So what are my solutions here? As the dark night does throw me a bone, sometimes.

It seems they focus around my job – take that away, and the creative energy levels rise (as the money falls). But take it away and bang goes my chance of buying a property – mortgage providers love freelancers. In fact, take it away and can I afford to rent my own place, even? It depends what I swap the day job with – another full-time job closer to home? But would that a) pay as well, or b) be viable – the industry I work in is still shaky from the recession. And is swapping like for like worth the effort of change? It might buy me some commute time, but would I be just sticking a plaster over a still sore cut?

Or there is the freelancer route – which sounds attractive but is equally hard work - more so, when bills loom and you have to make it all happen. My experiences of working as a freelancer is like playing the Spectrum game ‘Pitfall’ (anyone remember that?) – desperately swinging from rope to rope, always looking for the next one to grab in order to save you from falling into the pit. I never felt I could relax – even when engaged on a contract I’d be thinking of the next, and the next, and what happens after that one, and this one.

I guess what it comes down to is that I’m scared of just going for it. Eep – I’ve admitted it. I’ve taken risks in the past with my writing – twice I have jettisoned everything in order to follow my dream, and twice I’ve crash-landed, to be honest. The first time I lost sight of my goal and settled for a job with the illusion of writing; the second time was beyond my control – personal circumstances and the recession meant I pretty much lost everything. I guess it is natural then to feel scared about going for it a third time (third time lucky?). If I was in my mid-twenties I probably wouldn’t be feeling this way, but add ten years and suddenly things like security look a lot more attractive.

I actually don’t know what the answer is. But maybe none of us do. It could be that I find somewhere to move to that is closer to the current day job, and this cuts out some commuter stress. As don’t get me wrong, I like the current job – it is probably one of the nicest full-time jobs that I have had. But time flies when you are busy doing something else. I think this is what scares me most of all.

Sleepy Hollow

Not the film – me! I feel all sleepy hollow at the moment. The system, thingy and whatsit from last week are still causing mayhem and mischief. Do you ever picture yourself running flat out at days and yet still you never catch them? That’s exactly how I feel – so much to do both at work and at home – and everything else seems to suffer a bit in-between. January has hit me like a ton of bricks, one way or another. It doesn’t help that this month hides the slow sideways shuffle towards pay-day, either.

But all is well as today I bought three shiny ring binders – one bright red, which is to house the newest print out of the novel; one bright purple, which is to be home to short stories; and one dark and full of secrets, which is to hide What Hasn’t Been Told Yet. I can get very happy with new stationery. It doesn’t take much to make me happy, come to think about it.

I’m sorry if I haven’t got around to your blogs as much as I would like. My computer at home is on its last legs and is butt-achingly slow at doing anything. Even Word seems to give it gyp. I’ve backed up everything, so that is all okay, but it worries me that it will give one last groan and then refuse to start. I can’t really afford a new one so I am hoping something amazing will happen. I’m not sure quite what I expect – computer fairy to give me pressie? Lottery win when forgotten to buy ticket? I guess I shall just have to see.

A moment from my window

Tube trains rattle past the busy junction, some baring battle wounds of faded graffiti, the name tags of owners having long since dropped the can and picked up a suit and tie. The sun catches and shines on the carriage, signalling a lost message from the heavens. The moving trains capture my gaze, my mind travelling for a quick second along the same rail, and then the tube is beyond the window frame, out of my world.

I count buses – seven today caressing the kerb, all with adverts for a male deodorant telling us that it is ‘new, dry and sensitive’, conjuring images of metrosexual men with floppy hair, men who wouldn’t be seen dead on the bus.

A helicopter goes past, cutting the clouds in two. Criminals or traffic, I think, as it disappears behind the office blocks that gather and crowd the station. Blank windows stare back at me, reflecting yet more glass panes until you forget which is real and which is false. Some have strip lighting; some show the backs of a computer monitor. Most look completely empty, the recession clearly announced on the ‘To Let’ signs sagging from the exterior.

I can see two trees from my window – both sporting the grey green worn by vegetation close to industry. They seem marooned in amongst all the brick, glass and concrete. Birds occasionally circle and swoop from the tree nearest me – pigeons and magpies, scroungers and thieves. A plane rumbles high above, coming or going? Departing or arriving? I make a stab at the direction, arriving, I think, and then an email flashes and my moment is over.

What is life like from your window?

On My Desk

Haribo Tangfastics

These are bad things that shouldn’t be on my desk, but they are as I got suckered in the Sweet Tunnel of Death that is the W.H. Smith’s queue for the till. I only went in for a magazine, and came out carrying half my body weight in discounted chocolate and sugary goo. At some point in the day I will make the bad mistake of reaching for a Haribo ‘tangfastic’, and get a little sweet/sour sugar rush. Ooo, I will think, blood racing, let’s go for another one. And there, my friends, is the moment where my tongue will fizz over and I will retreat, whimpering, until another day.

Tissues

The Spring Cold of Doom is upon me, cried the Jayne of Shalott. Sadly it is so – I have one of those pesky colds which foist upon their host a pathetic cough and the look of a crumpled Kleenex.

Mini muffins

Ah yes. How did they get there? Life, such mysteries.

Mobile (or rather, swooshy photo thing)

My iPhone no longer lives in a white tennis sock. My friend, after laughing quite hard I must admit, said there was no way I could go around fishing my mobile out of a sock so gave me a proper one. It is black with a diamante skull and crossbones design. Much more grown up.

Tatty hair band

To accompany the tatty hair. Oh I am so cruel to myself. It is not tatty really. It is free-range.

Pen

Someone else’s chewed bic. Don’t you just love inheriting pens? Memo to self. Don’t chew.

Work diary

I am a bit lost without a work diary. Important work stuff goes in here (labelled of course Important Work Stuff). Also I try and schedule evenings that are just for writing – this week Thursday and Friday evening, and Saturday (day) are sort of set aside, and I will be redrafting chapter 21. Oh yes.

Coconut Water carton

I read somewhere it is healthy. Not sure that a gallon of it is healthy though, especially if used to swig down mini muffins.

Mug

Mugs go quicker than gold dust around this office, so I will cling onto this one and slowly layer it with coffee.

Pre-Raphaelite postcard (John William Waterhouse, Miranda)

Miranda gazes wistfully off into the middle distance, waiting for her ship to come in. Metaphor, what metaphor?

What is on your desk?

The Day of Awkward

Sometimes the day of awkward just slaps you in the face with a soggy slipper.

The day started with a visit to the dentist. You just know this tale bodes well, huh? To be honest I was still reeling from my cat’s recent dentistry bills… for the price I paid she could have been the only naughty tortie with a gangster-style gold grill. From now on I shall look at prices in a whole new light… hm, a £100 dress ‘or one cat tooth’. But I digress…

For some reason known only to womankind, I had decided to wear a pair of boots with a heel ‘even though I knew the day would involve a fair amount of walking’. I had also completely forgotten I had agreed to house/cat-sit for a friend for a few days, and would therefore need to lug around a small suitcase all day. So there I was - heels, suitcase, handbag, phone I still don’t understand, and imminent dentist visit.

Although I live nearer Hertfordshire than London, my dentist is in leafy posh north London suburb, Highgate. This is because I desperately want to live in Highgate, and I figure if I get enough reasons to be there then Highgate will sort of painlessly absorb me like a comfy sponge. It is madness as the only thing I can afford in Highgate is a coffee and even then it would be with a stoic smile at the bill. But anyway…

It was only somewhere underneath Kentish Town on the Northern line did I remember that the dentist was not actually by the tube station, but was a twenty-minute trod up a hill. So, panicking slightly, I emerged at Highgate tube and started walking, fishing my mobile (iPhone!) out of my bag so I could call ahead.

Now, I know there are fancy things out there to protect iPhones, but at the moment mine lives in a sock. Somehow I always bring swanky new technology down to my level. So there it is, a sock. A clean sock… but still. I then realised I couldn’t walk and dial (tap) at the same time, and as I am not used to tapping numbers yet on a touch screen, I kept tapping the wrong things, as well as being out of breath. Eventually I got through and gasped something that probably sounded like I was trying out for an asthmatic Cadbury’s bunny.

I arrived at the dentist, sock/phone in hand, and luckily they could still see me for my appointment. They must have taken pity on the sock; either that or I looked wild-eyed and desperate. Five minutes later I was on the chair, trying not to steam up his mirror, feeling all sweaty and red-faced. Apparently I have a Bad Tooth, and a Bad Filling, and both need to have Bad Things done for a Price. I nodded dumbly, and then was released back into the wild to stomp back to the tube.

I then realised the only chance I would get to buy lunch would be to pop up at King’s Cross. Boy was that a big mistake. More walking, more stomping. Did I mention the suitcase? I got my lunch (take-out from Yo Sushi as a treat) but was starting to wilt, limp and look generally unkempt around the edges. This was the look I took in with me to work. I rocked that look. I owned it.

Later I was homeward bound, and was told (not personally, although I like the thought) that the Met line was suspended, and was in fact turfing everyone out at Wembley Park. Okay, I thought. I’ll just get the Jubilee line… and realised that the closest I could get to going north again would be changing at Green Park station for the Victoria line. For those that don’t know, Green Park is a whole lot more south than I wanted. Still it had to be done, and so, after a meandering Jubilee line crept into Green Park, I found myself on the world’s busiest platform. A tube stopped, and I was whooshed up and onto the tube into a space roughly the size of a pea. Everyone already looked grim but then we were told someone had taken ill on a tube at Seven Sisters, eight stops away, and they had managed to suspend the whole line.

I’d like to say that everyone on the entire suspended network only wished good vibes towards that poor ill person, but I rather suspect… well, you can probably imagine. Faces like thunder, we all disembarked and did what I was trying to avoid, the seemingly mile-long stomp through the tunnels to the Piccadilly line.

Never mind, I thought, as I stared at the racing black through the window. Nearly home! And after everything that has happened today, what could possibly go wrong?

Drizzle.

That’s what.

Never too old

My lunchtime scurry yesterday took me into a charity shop and I overheard two elderly ladies conversation. It went like this:

Not-so-elderly lady: Did you do anything for your birthday at the weekend?
Definitely-older-elderly lady: No! (Loud and defiant)
Not-so: Oh. You didn’t go out?
Definitely-older: No! (Long drawn out ‘no’ suggesting stupid question)
Not-so: Oh. (Voice suggests wariness of proceeding)
Definitely-older: No point celebrating birthdays when you get to my age (laughs, but sounds sad).

What a shame to get to live so long and feel like that. She could have got herself a film to watch, a nice dinner, a bunch of flowers, listened to favourite music, ate some chocolates. Why rely on other people for these things? Who knows what happened in her life that made her so defiantly bitter but it does seem a pity. Framing it better might have led to a more pleasant conversation with her friend:

Not-so-elderly lady: Did you do anything for your birthday at the weekend?
Definitely-older-elderly lady: Yes, I didn’t go out but made a day of it indoors.
Not-so: Oh. That sounds nice!
Definitely-older: It was, and the sun was shining. Makes a difference doesn’t it? (Smiles)
Not-so: Oh I agree! (Voice suggests settling in for a long chat)
Definitely-older: Always worth celebrating birthdays, whatever age you are (laughs, and means it).

Sigh. I wish I could rewrite things for people, sometimes.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

And so a brand new year, and a brand new decade has begun, complete with a winter wardrobe of white. I have also decided to change the scenery, and have agreed to house and cat sit for a friend’s parents for a month while they are away. Luckily I got settled in before the snow, and am now blissfully enjoying my own space. No longer will I feel like a crazy person if I want to write in the middle of the night, or from 6am, or anytime I want!

I have been left with enough food and drink to stock a small but sturdy army, there is chocolate to be found most everywhere I look, and am already old friends with the cat. I have also worked out the various heaters, although my slight OCD is in full force with the bar fire in the main room – is it off? Is it? Shall I check again 10 minutes later? And again? I also brought my hard drive and printer across (I really should get a lap top one of these days!), and now have a little home office sorted. It is really nice here, a time to breathe, and to step out of the normal routine.

The plan now is of course full speed on the writing. Through various reasons, I haven’t managed any more on the novel since December 29th, so now I have to pick it back up again, keep calm, and carry on. There is still normal work to fit in around that, but now I can come home and write all the time without my mum’s suspicions of what I am doing. In her world, (think Daily Mail, sadly), the Internet is where people go to talk seedy in chat rooms, arrange to meet killers, download porn, or give away bank details. Hence her fear every time she hears me tapping away upstairs! I tell her I am writing a novel, but this goes down the same as it would if I said I was planning to be an astronaut. She’ll try and get excited about it, for example if I use the same analogy she would ask about my space outfit, wonder if I should go for a nice green instead of white, but warn me not to spend all my time researching stars. If I then tried to talk seriously about space and shuttles, she’d nod, her eyes would glaze, and she’d point out that Eastenders is on. So being here neatly skips all that, and gives me the space I need to crack on. I am loving it already!

Conversational Minefields

There is an invisible conversational minefield that is planted where I live every Christmas day when certain relatives come around. Negotiating it can be very tricky indeed, as you can see. Typical exchanges (and explosions) go as follows.

Me: How are you?
Miserable, actually. (BOOM!)

Me: Happy Christmas!
Is it? Considering all my troubles how dare you say that to me. (BANG!)

Me: Your hair looks nice!
Yours doesn’t, in fact you look really old. You are so ancient. Not sure why you are still wearing young things like jeans, anyone over thirty should be in a granny nighty. (BAM!)

Me: What presents did you get?
A small candle to light in my darkened room. (POW!)

Me: What are your plans for the New Year?
I don’t have any friends. You should include me in all your plans or I might kill myself and then that will be your fault. (BOOM!)

Me: What have you been up to?
Nothing . But don’t you worry about me; you have to live your own life. I’ll just sit here, casting a lonely shadow. (BANG!)

Me: How has work/school been?
Boring. (POW!)

Me: Here’s your present!
Oh. I don’t like that book/clothes/toy. I might cry and say I hate it and only wanted money. (BOOM!)

Me: But you have been given money.
Doh, only £70 so far. She/he got £75. It’s not fair. (BANG!)

Me: Christmas dinner is served!
I’ve decided I don’t eat turkey /it’s yucky and cold as we are so late anyway (SHAZAM!)

Me: Let’s play a game!
Only one I have practised so I can win. We will play by the rules and if you win I will say you have cheated. Just so you know. (KA-BAM!)

Me: Let’s watch TV!
Only what I want to watch, actually, as things you like are deadly dull like yourself. And I will have it at super-volume to ignore the rest of you in the same room. (BOOM!)

Nearly every time I open my mouth I hear a distant explosion. It gets to the point where I’d rather stay silent. One day I will like to enjoy Christmas, and each year I hope things will be different with certain folk, but it never gets any better, or easier. I do deep down love them and want them to be happy, but I am so weary. I fear that my patience has snapped and worn thin, and now I cannot help any further, but instead wish for the day to be over. Tricky stuff.

Meetings

The London Morning

Early sunshine is split by the looming tower blocks, twin shafts of light gracing dusty lines of cars and bouncing off the auburn hair of the lady hurrying ahead of me. A man jogs past, white trainers easily visible under his navy suit. I look at my watch and smile at his eagerness; the die-hard commuters travelling towards their Mecca know when to walk and when to run. We do it as one, we cross the busy road as one, and we all file into the train station mute and accepting.

I stride ahead to my staked spot on the platform. My territory is bordered by the see-through bin and the post with the CCTV screens. I share my grey concrete land with a group of ladies who interchange English words with a more musical language, and try to decipher the patterns the words make in my mind. Their laughing chatter sounds friendly. A man flicks my arm with his free newspaper, another generously shares his tinny sounding bass emitting from white earphones that snake down his suit jacket. On the opposite platform a small boy stands alone, away from the shouting school-shirted crowd further down the platform. His uniform is freshly ironed, the cuffs of his blazer are too long, and his shoes are too smart-shiny. He has no friends, and as yet remains too small and new for the pack to notice him. I feel for him, this brand new boy, the solitude he must embrace as a friend.

The train pulls up with an indignant whine. We shift and group around the doors and then squeeze singularly past the two large people who always firmly plant themselves at the entrance. There is no point in seeking a seat; indifferent gazes already in place in each carriage. Instead we all crowd near the doors in our bid to be first off the train when it pulls into a station with an underground connection. Timing is everything. We stand as a human block and listen to half a conversation on a mobile. Did he? Did she? Would he though? Is it? My gaze flickers on various things – the mole on the man’s neck in front of me, the strange hair-piece that woman is wearing, the painted toe-nails peeking out from flip-flops, the square of dirty sun through the windows.

There is an expectant murmur as the train pulls into the important station, the station with the underground. My carriage is perfectly positioned in front of the steps leading down, away from the chill blue sky. Years of commuting gives a secret knowledge that rides over what we once thought important – the best conker tree, the best alleys for short-cuts to school, and the best newsagent for Slush Puppies. Now it is all about where to stand for the doors to open in front of us; the short-cut corridors through the tube stations, how to rush ahead for the empty tube train so you get a seat.

The doors open and we pour forward, suits and scarves, bags and briefcases, earphones and newspapers and books and take-out coffees. We blend into one giant person on the threshold, all hands and arms and legs, and then separate back into ourselves, clattering down the steps. The daylight grows weaker and then disappears, replaced by fake light that takes no prisoners.

When I next see the sky again the blue is replaced by grey.

Monday irritations

It is funny how tiny little things can influence a day’s behaviour. I have spent most of today slightly sad and withdrawn all because my toe is poking through a hole in my tights. I’ve tried to shuffle it around so it won’t poke out, but it appears my toe is in desperate need to rub against the inside of my shoe like some love-starved dog.

This is combined today with the dreaded half-sleeve / jacket situation. Every time I put my jacket on I have to spend ages fishing around for the end of my sleeve so it doesn’t bunch up somewhere around my armpit. This also makes me feel slightly sad, as well as every so often looking rather demented.

Another bad decision today was the sleepy thought last night that my hair could go another day. I should never, ever have this thought. When this thought occurs, I spend the next day with hair scraped back off my face looking as if I am auditioning for the part of Constance Hardbroom in a new theatre production of Jill Murphy’s The Worst Witch.

The final nail in today was pairing suit trousers with trainers all because I woke up late and had to run to the train station. Got my train, but not sure my old battered Sketchers really go with pin-stripe. Still, all the better to run home again and plan to be more organised for tomorrow.

I want to live somewhere nice

Back when I was growing up, my neighbourhood was a nice place to be. It wasn’t rich, it wasn’t poor, but it had decent folk from all nationalities and everyone got along. We had neighbourhood parties where we ate jerk chicken alongside cucumber sandwiches, we danced to reggae and roxy music, and people tended their gardens and waved to each other in the street.

Now litter blows from one end to the other. Gone are most of the neighbours that we used to know, their gardens replaced with ill-kept driveways. Teenagers patrol the streets on low-slung bicycles, casting about disdain and boredom in equal measures. Cars get scratched, police sirens and helicopters rule the night, and you know not to come home after dark. No one knows their neighbours anymore, and people hide behind their front doors.

Three incidents just this year alone – a violent alteration in the street outside my house in the early morning hours that led to a shooting, neighbourhood kids throwing stones at passers-by, and calling the police when I saw a man beat a woman to her knees in the street. I’ve just had enough of this place of no respect, where people and property mean naff all, and all you see is rubbish everywhere. Some neighbourhoods go up in London and some go down, and mine has been on a downward spiral for the last ten years. It may get better in forty years time, but it is going to get a lot worse first.

I hate not feeling safe in my home. I hate worrying about kids two doors down throwing stones at my cats (and at me!) when in the garden. I hate worrying about my mum being there on her own when I am not with her. I have to find somewhere new for all of us. No pressure then.

But where is nice? I want to feel safe and be surrounded by green trees and gardens. I want neighbours who say hello when you see them, who grow vegetables and cheerfully walk their dogs. I want a train line where the seat cushions are connected to the seats and people don’t spit on the platforms. I want a period house with some sort of period detail – like some tiles, or a fireplace. I want a shed full of plastic plant pots waiting to be filled and a garage for the car I don’t have. I want a grocer selling local produce. Heck – throw in a forge, I want that too. I want a nice restaurant and a pub with timbered low ceiling and real ale. I want to be able to get my mum and J’s mum sweet little cottages in the same street as mine, near yet far. I want some sort of local tea shop that sells cupcakes, and a nice bookshop. I want to be able to go for a walk without worrying about straying into the wrong areas. I want some peace, and no sirens.

I’m not sure this place exists but I will keep searching for it. And keep buying lottery scratch cards!

When Technology Goes Bad

Today the sky swirled with grey and the greyness leaked into my mood like old paint water. I nodded on the tube, lulled by the clickety-clack of the wheels in motion and the fact I had a seat all to myself. I came home and ate, and tried to write, and my words ran out before… yes, just like that.

So this evening shouldn’t have been the night I tried to install a wireless printer. What is it with these things? Why are the instructions so obtuse? The first thing I had to do was move a little yellow bit of plastic from one slot to another slot. No explanations, no clue what on earth that means in printer world, just a grown up version of matching shapes. And from then on it all spiralled down – Ethernet cables that wouldn’t do what I wanted them to do (work, mostly), wireless not actually being wireless, things hidden behind settings panels hidden within small print navigation, CD-installing software that doesn’t install, printers that don’t recognise they are printers (what would it be instead – a sheep?). I appear to have the first printer in the world with multiple personality disorder.

I gave up after nearly 2 hours of fiddling around, and felt very small that I haven’t managed to complete the set up. I think my brain is too frazzled from grey-infected Monday. It didn’t help either that it was all for mum, who is now increasingly thinking that technology is all a Rather Bad Idea when I want to say no it is good… when it works, that is.

And now before I know it, it is 10pm and that means bedtime. I’m far too tired and grumpy for anything else. But then that just means work tomorrow, and then another bedtime, and then work and then bed… I always get like this when working full-time and not writing. The days just meld into one. Maybe it didn’t help either that I tried to do a bit more on chapter five at lunchtime and me and the printed pages just looked at each-other with no understanding, like teenagers and parents. Maybe it doesn’t help that I feel stressed and tired. I feel I need a day of just hiding under a duvet.

Bits and pieces

Monday sometimes springs upon me like a tiger, with me the unwary dewy-eyed doe having a quiet drink at the water-hole. Today I have managed to get to work minus my swiper and the loose pages of chapter five. The swiper calamity means I have to knock on doors every time I want to go to the toilet (please miss, can I…), and the pages of novel mean I cannot do any writing at lunchtime. I don’t feel like me without carrying them around! Oh well, perhaps I can cope for a day.

I forgot my card pin number the other day. It was the same number arrangement I have used for two years, and yet for some reason the sequence of numbers went completely out of my mind. I tried three times in desperation, and of course the card locked as a security measure, so now I am waiting for a new pin. I went in the bank to draw some money out, and managed to feel so guilty, like I was clearing some poor soul’s account. I had to keep checking my handbag to make sure the word ‘swag’ wasn’t printed on it in clear letters. And now paying by cash for everything is making me wince - £44 went out the window this morning for the weekly travel. Look at the pretty purple notes go.

Weekend was spent with good friend S, and good friend S’s new little baby. Aw. Possibly one of the cutest babies ever, although there were a few questions to fend off about marriage (are you and J thinking of…? when will you and J…?) and babies (when are you thinking of…?). Managed to duck out of all such grown up questions about my future, and instead shared my vision of the Grand Plan (write book, make book readable, send book off, um…) Sometimes I think I make it sound like I am teetering on the edge of good fortune, in which case everyone starts congratulating me and I panic that I have made things sound too good when in fact nothing is happening. Sometimes it feels more like I have done some crayoning and am proud the finished result is stuck to my mum’s fridge, in which case people look at me with pity in their eyes and enthuse about how my full time job sounds so good.

I thought of my story

I thought of my story as the pale sun shone brightly in the morning sky. Five minutes to catch the train - make haste, mustn’t be late - and by the time I am secured within a sea of people on my carriage my thoughts have fragmented into the nitty gritty – too crowded, too squashed, too sunlight-right-in-my-eyes, too loud second-hand music, too much.

I thought of my story at lunchtime as I stepped onto rain slick streets on the search for a salad. Only thirty minutes today, there’s a meeting this afternoon - make haste, mustn’t be late – and by the time I am back at my desk my thoughts have fragmented into the nitty gritty – too peppery, too chewy, too meeting-very-soon, too where’s my pen, too let’s-read-through-this-first, too much.

I thought of my story as the tube carriage rattled past stations alive with the evening rush. Ten minutes to catch the connecting train – make haste, mustn’t be late – and by the time I am on the last leg of my journey my thoughts have fragmented into the nitty gritty – too crowded, too hot, too can-I-reach-the-free-paper, too let’s-listen-to-music, too hungry, too much.

I thought of my story before I turned off the light. Best go to sleep now or I’ll never get up at 6.30 – make haste, mustn’t be late – but the story doesn’t go away when I close my eyes. It’s there all the time. Hopefully it will still be there when I have time to pay it full attention again. I don’t want it to ever go silent.

Where is my Reboot button?

When technology acts up, it can nearly always be sorted out by restarting and jiggling the wires. But when I start to act up, where is my reboot button? What wires do I need to wiggle? As I need to get into the swing of editing again and cannot concentrate for more than a millisecond.

I have just opened the novel document and Word tells me the last time I clicked it open was on the 17th April. Ok, so 9 days, not a complete disaster, but still a rather long time in-between visits. I’ve started (again) at chapter 4, as I have had enough good feedback with the beginning chapters to resist touching them again. So, chapter 4. Only 18 chapters left to go. And that new idea to fit in the middle. Right…. Let’s go!

I start re-reading the first paragraph and my mum comes home. She starts talking to me as soon as she enters the house, and is still talking up the stairs, and into my room. Unsurprisingly my attention has gone by the time I get back to my computer. I get the feeling my mum thinks I am bonkers staying inside while the rest of London basks in sunshine. ‘Haven’t you been out, it’s a nice day! Don’t hide away from the world playing on your computer!’

Agh – it is the word ‘playing’ which ties me up in knots. When my brother lived at home, in ancient times long past, he played games on his computer – the sort of games that loaded in a cassette recorder, which you could crash and add extra lives by writing something clever into the script along the lines of: ‘POKE=Extra lives!’ Why it always seemed to be the word ‘poke’ I have no idea, but my mum got the idea from then on in that computers are for games, and it has taken a while for that viewpoint to shift.

I know she fully believes I can write a novel, but sometimes I don’t think she realises how utterly serious I am about it. I have given up practically everything in order to do this over the last two years – financial security, owning property – and as I watch friends marry and follow a natural progression to have children, sometimes I worry about that, too. But I tend to think everyone follows their own path for a reason, and this is mine – good or bad! And so I sit inside when the sun shines, and ‘play’ with words – perhaps there is not much difference after all. Apart from my mum not knowing anyone else with an odd daughter like me, I guess.

And so I re-start again at chapter 4. My goal for today is to get that chapter sorted. In fact, if I can get a chapter a week done then I might be all finished by (runs to the calendar) August 22nd. Oh blimey...