Why I haven't blogged

“You don’t blog anymore.” 

“When are you going to blog again?” 

People (okay, two of them) keep asking me this and, really, the answer is very simple.  I really don’t have anything much to say.  Seriously, my life is so boring, reading about it would be the literary equivalent of watching the proverbial paint dry.

See, right now I’m sitting at my desk, writing my agony aunt column for Natural Health magazine. It’s so cold that I am wearing the following: thermal vest, jumper, fleece, James’ old body warmer/gilet thing; jeans; knee-high boots; James’ bobble hat; fingerless mittens (thanks Zoe!); fleece dressing gown (over legs); plus (obviously) bra, pants, socks (two pairs).  I bear a rather unfortunate resemblance to a Womble or a Victorian invalid swaddled up in a bath chair. 

‘You need a pipe,’ said String on Twitter. 

‘I need a heated keyboard and mouse,’ said I.  And actually, wouldn’t that be wondrous? 

‘You need a small modern house with good insulation,’ said the uber practical Em.

But really, the house can be warm as toast. Yesterday I threw caution to the wind (and probably a shedload of money out through the gaps) and had the heating on. It was bliss. Total, utter bliss.  So blissful in fact that I clean forgot I don’t drink alcohol and downed a bottle of wine out of sheer joie de vivre and warm fuzzy thoughts, stumbled around a bit and promptly fell asleep at 9pm or thereabouts. 

But that was Sunday, oh feckless reckless weekend feeling. Today was back to austerity.  Getting up at 6.30am in the cold and dark possessed its usual lustre of…er…beige.  Usually it takes me about half an hour to summon up the wherewithal.  Today the SP rather helped matters by making retching noises from the bed so I literally hurtled him downstairs and outside before even realizing I was standing stark naked and freezing cold at the door. 

And then we took James in to see the doctor cos he’s got yet another problem. This time apparently it’s Osgood-Schlatter disease (aka tibial tubercle apophyseal traction injury or epephysitis of the tibular tubercle) (yeah, I know...apparently they used to call it simply growing pains). And then Adrian said he’d treat me to a coffee and an almond croissant at Costa Coffee and so we sat there and stared gloomily across the table.  And the croissants were stale and the coffee (decaf capucchino) was kinda luke-warm but neither of us could be arsed to complain. And by then the health shop over the road had opened so I went over and bought a packet of tofu (basil flavoured), a packet of spelt flatbreads and some agave syrup (nice on porridge).  And then we drove back (in the caved in car) and then I piled on the layers and got to work. 

And there you are. And there you have it. A snapshot of my life. 

And that’s why I haven't blogged. :-) 

Me, myself, I

So I was going up to London for the Stoke Newington Literary Festival. So I spoke to my oldest bestest friend Jane.
‘Um, I’m coming up to London next weekend…’  Pause.  ‘Could I?’
Pause. ‘Damn. I’m going to Istanbul.’ 
‘Oh.’  Remembered my manners quickly.  ‘How lovely.’
But really. Damn, damn, damn.
‘Never mind. I can crash somewhere else, no problem.’
‘Don’t be silly. I’ll put the keys in the post.’
Oh my.

So there I was, in London, solo, for the weekend.  It was like being in my 20s again. I had the keys to the castle - a flat of my own, albeit borrowed. 

Now, let’s get this totally in context.  This is not some cruddy old flat.  Jane’s place is tucked away down a leafy street behind Essex Road.  It’s the bottom half of a Victorian house so I suppose it’s not really a flat per se, but let’s call it that for the sake of argument (and because the word maisonette sounds unpleasant – frankly anything that ends –ette always sounds a bit dodgy and smacks of “feminine hygiene” to me, but that could just be me.) Actually I don’t like the word ‘flat’ either but…

Anyhow, this is a clean, pristine flat. It is a flat that is not covered in dog-hair; a flat that does not have partying ‘energies’ on the stairs; a flat that has nice normal rooms, not spaces that deserve labels like ‘doom’ and ‘despond’.   I walked in, kicked off my flipflops and just sighed with total utter decadent pleasure.

There were flowers.  There was a lingering scent of Jo Malone rather than the stench of stale dog sick, fetid trainers and damp.  I dumped my bag in the bedroom and threw myself onto the big wide bed with its fresh white Egyptian cotton sheets and – oh oh oh – its memory mattress.  The silence was intoxicating.

I padded upstairs into the open-plan kitchen, living room area and flung open the tall wide windows.  Sunlight streamed through and tickled my toes.  Opened the fridge and, bless her soul, Jane had left me a whole shelf of veggie heaven (falafel, dolmades, halloumi, veg curry, various types of tofu).  Smoked tofu with almonds and wild garlic? Basil tofu? Seriously? 

Jane has the soundtrack of our shared past pretty well covered and so pretty soon I was trying to decide between The Cure, Bruce or Kate Bush. Shuddered a little over David Cassidy (no, I never did, nor Donny Osmond FFS); The Specials (did, but only live – they were cracking live); The Smiths (don’t get me started). 

Now don’t get me wrong.  I love my family, I really do, and I even have a sneaking softness for the Bonkers House. I do love Dulverton too.  But, but, but…sometimes it’s just lovely to be me.  Just me.  Not a mother, not a wife, not someone trying to juggle a gazillion balls at once.  No responsibility. Nobody to please. Nothing that has to be done.  A holiday from life, from reality.  You know what I mean, don’t you?  If you don’t, I’ll take it you don’t have children – or are male.

So I put the music up high. Had a long hot shower (without anyone yelling that they needed this or had I seen that?). I did my tarot.- and, frankly, didn't believe it.  Made a pot of coffee. Stretched out on the sofa, wiggled my toes and just sighed with pleasure.