Diehards

Wednesday, 24 August 2011

Hopefully

this will explain why I'm so silent:































































































I taste plaster dust at all times. I can feel it coating the inside of my ears. Blinking only seems to smooth it over my eyes, like a tablecloth. But the job should be complete by the beginning of next week. Meanwhile I wake in the night to make revisions to tile colour choice. First thing this morning I was messing with felt tip pens and coloured pencils. I want one neutral and three accents. It's two of the accent colours I've been having trouble with, but I think I have it now. If not I'll have to live with a bad decision for a long time, as they are ordered and we need to get at least one wall of them up before Saturday when the bath et al go in. The fun will start there because I have only a vague vision of random colour bars dotted over the walls. How I will actually achieve that vision I have yet to discover.

The lenghts I am going to to, apparently, avoid even sniffing my manuscript.
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Monday, 15 August 2011

The Great Clean

Bollocks. I keep beginning to write a post, get distracted, and lose my thread.

I've been, since my return from the south a week or so ago, trying to remove the stale smell of thousands of layers of our, and probably other creatures, excretions from the house. Shampooing the upholstery and carpets, vacuuming and washing down the walls, scrubbing the paintwork, bicarb sprinkling and turning the mattresses, beating the rugs...

On and on it goes. Today I tried to lift a carton of yogurt from a shelf in the fridge and it was so glued with spilt-goodnessknowswhat that it burst all over my fingers. And I realised I had only cleaned the fridge once this year. What sort of woman am I?

From now on I will keep an eye on spillage and take a damp cloth to the fridge, amongst other things, weekly. And wipe down the open shelves in the kitchen more often too, yikes they were sticky.

Maybe if I get myself a proper routine I'll transform into the type of woman who can keep chickens. Super fresh eggs would be marvellous.

But the thing that would be the most marvellous would be having no excuse whatsoever to not get on with my manuscript, which is probably what this is all about. I pick it up, read, flinch, scratch out whole lines and ponder replacements. And then I begin to notice the dust on my desk, or a leaf on the floor trampled in from a fag break in the garden. Or I feel suddenly hungry and go to the fridge.

Perhaps I'm not ready for the rewrite, the greatest of great cleans.