Adrian is In Bruges this week (capitals because, of course, one can no longer just say ‘in Bruges’ without thinking of the brilliant film). He’s doing his usual thing – eating, drinking, moaning about how tough it is. And I’m here. Making a right hash of things.
Really, I could smack myself. It’s not even as if I have a groaning workload: two columns and a blog post for The Lady are hardly pushing it. Okay, so I should be thinking about rewriting Samael.And I should be working on my new project.
But I keep getting distracted. I blame social media. Someone will make a chance comment on Facebook and I’m off googling and rummaging through my bookshelves. Someone mentions a song on Authonomy and the headphones are on and I’m lost in a nostalgia fest, clicking on link after link after link.
Because there is just SO much out there; so much I want to understand; so many fascinating people to talk to; so much of life I want to grab. How can people ever say they’re bored?
Then, of course, everyday life intrudes. Dogs need walking, clothes need washing, kitchens need cleaning, children need feeding. I decided to fast while Adrian was away (less shopping/cooking etc) but James still needs grub. And then there’s my whole new wellbeing kick. How do I slot in the gym and yoga and meditation?
I tell you, it’s exhausting. And then James texts me to say ‘Can we play squash after you pick me up from school?’ So we play squash and the little toe-rag nearly beats me and by the time we finish it’s late so I think sod it to cooking supper and he successfully persuades me that just ONE meal from the takeaway won’t fur his arteries too much. And, no, actually the chips didn’t tempt me. And then we get onto Assassin’s Creed and kill people and I convince myself it’s okay as it’s Templars and Jerusalem and Rome and all (ancient history, mystical, must be alright, yeah?). And then somehow we end up watching The Inbetweeners and both sit there wincing as the guy horizontally frots himself like an ironing board against this girl.
‘Well, that was embarrassing,’ says James.
‘What was I thinking?’ I reply. ‘I shouldn’t have let you watch it. I'm sorry. It’s deeply inappropriate.’
‘You’re telling me,’ he replies. ‘I can’t believe I just watched that – with my mother. When you get the next series out on DVD, can I watch it on my own?’
See? I’m a walking disaster. Hopeless, hapless mother. Incompetent wage-earner. Crap writer. Lousy housekeeper. Why can’t I be sensible? Why can’t I be like normal people?
But then the sun turns the frosty fields into pixie dust as I walk the dogs. And the SP wakes me up at 2am and so, while he’s having a crap, I stand in the garden in the freezing cold in a t-shirt and UGGs and stare up at the moon, so huge. And then slowly I start to spin around, lost in the night sky. And then I go faster and faster until I’m so dizzy I nearly fall over. And when I come in, I’m so high that I can’t sleep for hours.
And then I think, well, if I were normal I wouldn’t do things like that. So maybe normal is over-rated. And James will probably grow up just fine.
And I’m starting too many sentences with And.
And I’ve got Bob Dylan and Idiot Wind blasting in my ears.
‘You’re an idiot, babe,
It’s a wonder that you still know how to breathe.’