Yesterday, Grandpa Andy and I took Kayleigh to visit a place near Canterbury called Wild Wood. Not wild because it has particular anger management issues, but wild because it is full of wild life like otters, boar and beavers, badgers, bison and deer, wild ponies, red squirrels and wallabies, except Kayleigh insisted on calling them kangaroos (the wallabies, not the squirrels) and Andy was so impressed she knew what a kangaroo was, we decided to let that finer detail slip.
There were storks and herons, owls and egrets, weasels and stoats (no, I shan't do the joke...okay then, I will if you insist...ahem...what is the difference between a stoat and a weasel? A weasel is weasely spotted but a stoat is stotally different!) Of course, the creatures most admired by Kayleigh were the ducks. And she rather liked the pole cats, whom you could see by going underground into their burrow system and watching them through windows that had been cut into the earth. Sensible creatures, they were all curled up asleep, and luckily the window that showed the area of burrow that was full of dead rabbit heads and dismembered chicks was a little above Kayleigh's eyeline so we didn't have any awkward explanations to make re: 'Why is there a rabbit's head in the burrow, Gran, and where did all the blood come from?'
She also liked the wild ponies, especially the foal that spent most of its time scratching its bottom along some barbed wire fencing. Piles? Fleas? I know not, nor do I need to know.
Anyway, despite it being October and a gentle chill settling in the air, and despite the fact that between the sunshine we had been avoiding little showers of rain, the demand for ice-cream came. So off we trotted to find some lunch. And next to the cafe cabin thingy, there was a children's play area and a petting centre. There were goats and geese, rabbits and...and...CHICKENS!
Big old white Sussex hens pottered around with teeny buff Orpington bantams. I spotted a Bluebell and a Barnvelder, a rather handsome cockerel of indeterminate lineage, and some silkies, grey and white and looking very much at home in a Wild Wood with their Wild Hairdos.
'I'll take Kayleigh to play on the swings and slide,' said Andy, and off they went.
'I'll go and find us some lunch,' said I, and stayed and watched the chickens.
I talked to the hens, because one has to. And they talked back. A couple came over and we passed the time of day discussing the merits of a thick woolly jumper over a waterproof coat on a chill Autumn morning, and whether mammoths should be brought back from extinction, and what sort of a Prime Minster Boris Johnson would make.
And all the while I was thinking, 'Those bantams are really small. I could secrete a couple beneath my purple coat. No-one would know. I could carry on clucking to disguise any noise they might make. I mean, I've been standing here clucking for the past 10 minutes; enough people have seen me clucking. They'll think I'm some mad old bat who clucks to herself and they won't give me or my wriggling coat a second glance. In fact, if I up the level and volume of clucking, they'll probably give me a wider berth therefore making the act of chicken liberation even easier.'
Then I thought, 'I could send up an 'Escaped Wolf' alert. Yes, that'd be the thing. I could shout, 'The wolves have escaped! Everyone - run for your lives! Don't worry about the chickens - I'll save them!' And then I could just grab as many as possible and I wouldn't even have to bother hiding them because I would be committing an act of selfless heroism. And it would probably save me a lot on laundry bills, too, especially if I used one of the bins outside the cafe as a chicken carrier.
Alas, I had not the courage of my conviction, because I know Andy would have made me bring them all back with a note of apology, especially now that he has visions of grassy loveliness in his head for the back garden.
Ah well. It was, for a brief half an hour, very lovely to stand in the sun and commune, as in the old days, with chickens.
Sunday, 14 October 2012
Friday, 12 October 2012
A Pot of Kindness
Got home from work today to find a little potted plant with bright red flowers on the doorstep. After such an awful week, this single and lovely thought from my friend, Jean, made the misery melt away, and I carried it indoors with a smile on my face and a little skip in my heart.
There is something very powerful about a small gesture and message from a good friend that is able to sweep away the nastiness of a whole raft of people and circumstances. It makes you realise what is important, and what isn't. Jean knows that flowers are one of my very favourite things. No-one at work does.
So thank you, Jean. That bright red plant is going to sit in my arty-crafty writing room, so I can look at it often this weekend and smile. It is a little thing. But it means a lot.
There is something very powerful about a small gesture and message from a good friend that is able to sweep away the nastiness of a whole raft of people and circumstances. It makes you realise what is important, and what isn't. Jean knows that flowers are one of my very favourite things. No-one at work does.
So thank you, Jean. That bright red plant is going to sit in my arty-crafty writing room, so I can look at it often this weekend and smile. It is a little thing. But it means a lot.
Thursday, 11 October 2012
Grape Expectations
Moment of excitement yesterday when Andy thought he spied some grapes on one of the vines we transplanted from the allotment. On closer inspection the 'grapes' turned out to be berries from the honeysuckle that has run rampant along the fence beside the vine.
However, one garden illusion that is real is the reappearance of grass on the lawn area. This, for me, is an illusion tinged with sadness because it reminds me that we are currently chickenless. However, Andy is thrilled because he likes a spot of grass in the garden. He set about giving it a trim using the hedge trimmer. I'm not sure if using a hedge trimmer on a lawn is the best idea, but concede it is a better idea than using my kitchen scissors which is what happened a few weeks ago when the 'lawn' or 'tussock' as it was then, needed its first trim. And that will give you an idea of the extent of our back lawn. Which is, basically, pathetic.
Consequently, Andy has decided that he is going to returf. He is very keen to returf. To help nature along a bit. I remember doing some turfing once. It involved a lot of unrolling and stomping. It was instant grass. It was brilliant, especially as you get to cut up some of the sods to fit awkward edges, like a jigsaw puzzle. And also because you get to say 'sods'.
When will the turfing happen? I do not know. I do not even know if it is turfing season. It is certainly the season of driving to work with steamed up windows, and being covered in cats of an evening. And sipping of the cocoa and remembering to keep an umbrella at work. And the first inklings of Christmas are beginning to inkle. And the front garden is covered in spider webs. The front garden is also covered in grass which I don't think the spiders care about especially, but it does mean it won't need returfing.
And this weekend I am going to take some lavender cuttings, because there are some sprigs on the oldest lavender in the border that look at me every morning as I leave for work positively begging me to make them into new baby plants, so I shall.
And now I shall go because I am aware I am rambling, and I am tired and I can hear a cuppa and home made chocolate biscuit calling me from the kitchen.
However, one garden illusion that is real is the reappearance of grass on the lawn area. This, for me, is an illusion tinged with sadness because it reminds me that we are currently chickenless. However, Andy is thrilled because he likes a spot of grass in the garden. He set about giving it a trim using the hedge trimmer. I'm not sure if using a hedge trimmer on a lawn is the best idea, but concede it is a better idea than using my kitchen scissors which is what happened a few weeks ago when the 'lawn' or 'tussock' as it was then, needed its first trim. And that will give you an idea of the extent of our back lawn. Which is, basically, pathetic.
Consequently, Andy has decided that he is going to returf. He is very keen to returf. To help nature along a bit. I remember doing some turfing once. It involved a lot of unrolling and stomping. It was instant grass. It was brilliant, especially as you get to cut up some of the sods to fit awkward edges, like a jigsaw puzzle. And also because you get to say 'sods'.
When will the turfing happen? I do not know. I do not even know if it is turfing season. It is certainly the season of driving to work with steamed up windows, and being covered in cats of an evening. And sipping of the cocoa and remembering to keep an umbrella at work. And the first inklings of Christmas are beginning to inkle. And the front garden is covered in spider webs. The front garden is also covered in grass which I don't think the spiders care about especially, but it does mean it won't need returfing.
And this weekend I am going to take some lavender cuttings, because there are some sprigs on the oldest lavender in the border that look at me every morning as I leave for work positively begging me to make them into new baby plants, so I shall.
And now I shall go because I am aware I am rambling, and I am tired and I can hear a cuppa and home made chocolate biscuit calling me from the kitchen.
Wednesday, 10 October 2012
Feeling Flat
Andy and I are having a flat day. A day where, having been on the property market for almost six weeks now, the excitement of being potentially on the move has faded into the background of our life. I mean, what is one supposed to do whilst waiting for a buyer? Carry on as usual? Look at houses? Not look at houses? Either way, we are both feeling like we are not going to be moved by Christmas and that means we are looking into the new year and 2013 seems a life time away.
Ah well. Andy made some chocolate biscuits, and we sat and had a cuppa and a chat ( I had a cuppa and a chat and cough) and we've decided we'll plod on and wait. Not much else we can do really.
Well, I can. I can sort out a new job. Being at home for a couple of days has given me much needed thinking time. Most of my thinking as been silly thinking. Like last night I thought, 'I could sew bags. Bespoke bags. Handbags, shoulder bags, iPad bags, shopping bags. And I could put a tiny toy cat in each one as my unique selling point and call the brand 'Cat in a Bag.'
And whilst I was thinking 'cat' and 'bag' I thought, 'cats love boxes. I could develop a range of boxes for cats to play in.' And Pandora Kitten could model them and I could call the brand 'Pandora's Box.' Unfortunately, Pandora said that boxes were becoming very passé and there was no way she'd associate herself with such a product. However, if I should develop a line of luxury mini-castles for cats, she would pop on her tiara and flounce around a bit because being associated with a brand called 'Chat in a Chateau' would boost her street cred no end and probably help launch her own career in Hollywood.
See. Silly thinking.
Or I could set up a business where I go into schools and teach teachers how to use English properly. Which, on reflection, isn't such a silly idea.
I do like the idea of working for myself. It's just finding the right thing to do.
Andy has been at home today. He has been mostly baking. Bread and biscuits today. It was croissants and Chelsea buns over the weekend and consequently I am feeling a bit well fed. That's something else I am looking forward to in the New Year - getting back into regular park walking. No time nowadays, especially as it's dark when I go to work in the morning and almost dark when I get home. Andy has also finished murder most horrid on the buddleia.
'I've sawn the trunk right to the ground,' he said, because he had.
'That won't stop it,' I said. 'It'll be back bigger and uglier next year.'
'It'll be time to start on the willow harvest soon,' he said, because once he gets a saw in his hands, there's no stopping him and he was eyeing up the willow arch with a glint in his eye.
'I could make some willow wreaths and dangle miniature lavender bags on them,' I said.
'And what would you brand those as?' said Andy, who is clearly expecting some witty slogan.
'I have no idea,' I said.
Feeling flat.
Ah well. Andy made some chocolate biscuits, and we sat and had a cuppa and a chat ( I had a cuppa and a chat and cough) and we've decided we'll plod on and wait. Not much else we can do really.
Well, I can. I can sort out a new job. Being at home for a couple of days has given me much needed thinking time. Most of my thinking as been silly thinking. Like last night I thought, 'I could sew bags. Bespoke bags. Handbags, shoulder bags, iPad bags, shopping bags. And I could put a tiny toy cat in each one as my unique selling point and call the brand 'Cat in a Bag.'
And whilst I was thinking 'cat' and 'bag' I thought, 'cats love boxes. I could develop a range of boxes for cats to play in.' And Pandora Kitten could model them and I could call the brand 'Pandora's Box.' Unfortunately, Pandora said that boxes were becoming very passé and there was no way she'd associate herself with such a product. However, if I should develop a line of luxury mini-castles for cats, she would pop on her tiara and flounce around a bit because being associated with a brand called 'Chat in a Chateau' would boost her street cred no end and probably help launch her own career in Hollywood.
See. Silly thinking.
Or I could set up a business where I go into schools and teach teachers how to use English properly. Which, on reflection, isn't such a silly idea.
I do like the idea of working for myself. It's just finding the right thing to do.
Andy has been at home today. He has been mostly baking. Bread and biscuits today. It was croissants and Chelsea buns over the weekend and consequently I am feeling a bit well fed. That's something else I am looking forward to in the New Year - getting back into regular park walking. No time nowadays, especially as it's dark when I go to work in the morning and almost dark when I get home. Andy has also finished murder most horrid on the buddleia.
'I've sawn the trunk right to the ground,' he said, because he had.
'That won't stop it,' I said. 'It'll be back bigger and uglier next year.'
'It'll be time to start on the willow harvest soon,' he said, because once he gets a saw in his hands, there's no stopping him and he was eyeing up the willow arch with a glint in his eye.
'I could make some willow wreaths and dangle miniature lavender bags on them,' I said.
'And what would you brand those as?' said Andy, who is clearly expecting some witty slogan.
'I have no idea,' I said.
Feeling flat.
Tuesday, 9 October 2012
Atishoooooo!
And cough, cough, hack, hack, splutter, splutter...yak!
Yes, it finally got the better of me. Went to work yesterday and really shouldn't have, but institutional educational establishments have a way of making you feel guilty for having a day off sick unless you are actually dead (and then you still need a note from your GP).
But after a succession of people telling me I looked awful, and shouldn't I go home, and after sporting a headache and temperature for most of the day, I decided that today would have to be the first sickie day in goodness knows how long, and this morning I made the call and stayed chez moi.
I have done some marking. I have been very generous with my marking, in that I have sneezed over a lot of it, and coughed over the rest, thus sharing the bounty of my germs with at least 56 students. Not sure how long a germ lasts on an exercise book; I guess time will tell...
I have also tried to steam my head clear by drinking lots of lemon and ginger tea, having a very hot shower and doing some ironing. Steam works well, but only as long as the steam lasts.
Managed to lose hearing in my right ear by blowing my nose too hard. It is now very itchy. My ear, not my nose. And it keeps popping. My ear, not my nose. And running. My nose, not my ear.
I've been listening to the radio (with my one good ear). Really good programme this morning on Radio 4 about how fear of failure often prevents us from making the most of our lives. It,of course, is true. Fear of failure often stops me from writing. Stupid really, but after listening to the guy on the radio this morning, whose passion was music, I can understand a bit more of where I am going wrong. The thing that got me most was when he said that he had spent too much of his life getting up in the morning and dreading going to work. And his wake up call was a near break-down.
And even though I have a stinking cough and cold, and am confined to barracks, I still feel better than if I was at work, because the anxiety and stress has been relieved for one day.
So, I sit here, surrounded by cats and magazines and piles of grotty tissues and empty mugs. The estate agent called yesterday with 'feedback' from our weekend viewings. Two of them liked the house but not the location. The Italian couple are 'still thinking' which I think means they will offer something ridiculously below the asking price, and the fourth couple haven't been contactable.
The MMM Adventure has fizzled into a sort of spectator sport, which given my current physical wretchedness is just as well. Still, I was gladdened to read in the paper this morning (something else I haven't done for weeks - actually have time to read a weekday paper) that Saturn has entered my sign and changes are in the wind.
Whatever that means.
Yes, it finally got the better of me. Went to work yesterday and really shouldn't have, but institutional educational establishments have a way of making you feel guilty for having a day off sick unless you are actually dead (and then you still need a note from your GP).
But after a succession of people telling me I looked awful, and shouldn't I go home, and after sporting a headache and temperature for most of the day, I decided that today would have to be the first sickie day in goodness knows how long, and this morning I made the call and stayed chez moi.
I have done some marking. I have been very generous with my marking, in that I have sneezed over a lot of it, and coughed over the rest, thus sharing the bounty of my germs with at least 56 students. Not sure how long a germ lasts on an exercise book; I guess time will tell...
I have also tried to steam my head clear by drinking lots of lemon and ginger tea, having a very hot shower and doing some ironing. Steam works well, but only as long as the steam lasts.
Managed to lose hearing in my right ear by blowing my nose too hard. It is now very itchy. My ear, not my nose. And it keeps popping. My ear, not my nose. And running. My nose, not my ear.
I've been listening to the radio (with my one good ear). Really good programme this morning on Radio 4 about how fear of failure often prevents us from making the most of our lives. It,of course, is true. Fear of failure often stops me from writing. Stupid really, but after listening to the guy on the radio this morning, whose passion was music, I can understand a bit more of where I am going wrong. The thing that got me most was when he said that he had spent too much of his life getting up in the morning and dreading going to work. And his wake up call was a near break-down.
And even though I have a stinking cough and cold, and am confined to barracks, I still feel better than if I was at work, because the anxiety and stress has been relieved for one day.
So, I sit here, surrounded by cats and magazines and piles of grotty tissues and empty mugs. The estate agent called yesterday with 'feedback' from our weekend viewings. Two of them liked the house but not the location. The Italian couple are 'still thinking' which I think means they will offer something ridiculously below the asking price, and the fourth couple haven't been contactable.
The MMM Adventure has fizzled into a sort of spectator sport, which given my current physical wretchedness is just as well. Still, I was gladdened to read in the paper this morning (something else I haven't done for weeks - actually have time to read a weekday paper) that Saturn has entered my sign and changes are in the wind.
Whatever that means.
Sunday, 7 October 2012
Remembering what I forgot...
Oh, stupid me! Oh, stupid me, who got home from work on Friday evening and developed a full blown cold in the space of two hours. I have suddenly remembered something that I should never have forgotten, but I did, and it was stupid to forget and now I have remembered and I feel so much better, even though my throat is red-raw sore and my nose is stuffy- dribbly-sniffy, and my ears are poppy-crackley-whistley.
'What?' I hear you say. 'What is it that you have remembered that you forgot that you shouldn't have forgotten but it's okay now because you have remembered, and we forgive you because we all have our stupid moments in life?' (Well done for keeping up so far - very impressive for a Sunday morning!)
Well, I'll tell you what it is I have remembered. I have remembered that I am not a teacher, I am a writer. And I have also remembered what it was I want from life. And that is (in no particular order):
The peace and quiet of a view of the countryside
Writing
Andy
Good health
Sewing
Hens
A vegetable garden
Flowers
Cats
A log fire
A stable door
A terrier-dog of some sort called Colonel Bunty
That's all. And I forgot.
And how did I remember? I remembered this morning whilst performing my annual murder attempt on the buddleia in the garden. We do battle every year, me and that damned shrub, and every year it comes back a good foot taller and three feet wider and it laughs in triumph because I am a feeble human with some dodgy secateurs and it is THE MIGHTY BUDDLEIA who will triumph over the Universe (well, the garden at MMM)....mwhahahahahahahahaha! (Although I have to say that the lemon balm has given it a darn good run for its money in the global garden domination stakes this year. Still beating that back with a shovel.)
And I miss the allotment, and I miss the hens, and I miss properly growing stuff. And I miss writing because all I do is mark effing exercise books in my evenings or write stupid lesson plans that I never look at anyway just because I am not trusted to be a professional.
And it's all the fault of HORRID SCHOOL which is no longer satisfied with stealing all my waking hours (and a lot of my sleeping hours too) but wants to sabotage my health and sanity and turn me into some gibbering wreck.
('Denise!')
('What?')
('Stand back from the Drama Queen IMMEDIATELY!')
('But I like it! Look, I'm flouncing!')
('I said stoppit! NOW!')
('You are such a spoilsport - whoever you are.')
('Whatever. Get on with the blog.')
Anyway, we've had 5 house viewings this week. Three yesterday, one Friday, and one Wednesday. Two from yesterday seemed like a waste of time and I don't think we'll hear any more from them, and one was a possibly-interested; the only thing that annoyed me was that they were an Italian couple and they kept talking to each other in Italian which, as you know, I think is very rude. And given that my Italian is limited to 'lumaca' (snail) and 'klacson' (car horn) I didn't get much of a gist of what they were discussing.
The Friday appointment was for 6 p.m, having been changed at the last minute from Saturday 4.30. I got in from work at 5.10 to a ringing phone, agreed to the change in time, and spent half a crazy hour tidying up. He then didn't arrive until 7.30. SEVEN THIRTY!! I was well hacked off with him. Plus he was looking to buy somewhere for his daughter, plus he didn't seemed that interested, plus he said, 'Sorry I'm late; tell me to go away if you want to,' and I very nearly did.
The best couple were the Wednesday couple. They love the house. They stayed nearly an hour. They told us their complete life story. They are going to put in an offer...
...as soon as they have sold their house...
....ah well. We carry on.
'What?' I hear you say. 'What is it that you have remembered that you forgot that you shouldn't have forgotten but it's okay now because you have remembered, and we forgive you because we all have our stupid moments in life?' (Well done for keeping up so far - very impressive for a Sunday morning!)
Well, I'll tell you what it is I have remembered. I have remembered that I am not a teacher, I am a writer. And I have also remembered what it was I want from life. And that is (in no particular order):
The peace and quiet of a view of the countryside
Writing
Andy
Good health
Sewing
Hens
A vegetable garden
Flowers
Cats
A log fire
A stable door
A terrier-dog of some sort called Colonel Bunty
That's all. And I forgot.
And how did I remember? I remembered this morning whilst performing my annual murder attempt on the buddleia in the garden. We do battle every year, me and that damned shrub, and every year it comes back a good foot taller and three feet wider and it laughs in triumph because I am a feeble human with some dodgy secateurs and it is THE MIGHTY BUDDLEIA who will triumph over the Universe (well, the garden at MMM)....mwhahahahahahahahaha! (Although I have to say that the lemon balm has given it a darn good run for its money in the global garden domination stakes this year. Still beating that back with a shovel.)
And I miss the allotment, and I miss the hens, and I miss properly growing stuff. And I miss writing because all I do is mark effing exercise books in my evenings or write stupid lesson plans that I never look at anyway just because I am not trusted to be a professional.
And it's all the fault of HORRID SCHOOL which is no longer satisfied with stealing all my waking hours (and a lot of my sleeping hours too) but wants to sabotage my health and sanity and turn me into some gibbering wreck.
('Denise!')
('What?')
('Stand back from the Drama Queen IMMEDIATELY!')
('But I like it! Look, I'm flouncing!')
('I said stoppit! NOW!')
('You are such a spoilsport - whoever you are.')
('Whatever. Get on with the blog.')
Anyway, we've had 5 house viewings this week. Three yesterday, one Friday, and one Wednesday. Two from yesterday seemed like a waste of time and I don't think we'll hear any more from them, and one was a possibly-interested; the only thing that annoyed me was that they were an Italian couple and they kept talking to each other in Italian which, as you know, I think is very rude. And given that my Italian is limited to 'lumaca' (snail) and 'klacson' (car horn) I didn't get much of a gist of what they were discussing.
The Friday appointment was for 6 p.m, having been changed at the last minute from Saturday 4.30. I got in from work at 5.10 to a ringing phone, agreed to the change in time, and spent half a crazy hour tidying up. He then didn't arrive until 7.30. SEVEN THIRTY!! I was well hacked off with him. Plus he was looking to buy somewhere for his daughter, plus he didn't seemed that interested, plus he said, 'Sorry I'm late; tell me to go away if you want to,' and I very nearly did.
The best couple were the Wednesday couple. They love the house. They stayed nearly an hour. They told us their complete life story. They are going to put in an offer...
...as soon as they have sold their house...
....ah well. We carry on.
Tuesday, 2 October 2012
Inspiration
The cats are worried because my writing mojo appears to be low on fuel at the moment. Well, Phoebe isn't worried because she is generally aloof to my artistic angst, but Tybalt and Pandora are fretting because when I am not being distracted by writing, I am usually interfering with their lives by a) trying to persuade Pandora to enter Britain's Got Talent with me in a human-cat dance combo, or b) following Tybalt into cupboards to see exactly what it is that makes him so cupboard fixated.
Hence they have been suggesting writing projects for me, in the hope that I will hie me back to my arty-crafty writing room and leave them to follow their feline habits in peace i.e eating, sleeping, chasing Mr Light, and kicking cat litter all over the floor.
'How about a story about a cross-dresser detective thriller?' says Tybalt. 'With a main character called Dragatha Christie?'
'Hmmmm...' I say. 'Sounds mildly amusing. But I think I might get sued.'
'Or a story about a teacher who sees how much she can swear under her breath in class before one f her students hears her?' suggests Pandora.
'A bit too autobiographical,' I say.
'What about a short novel about a Prince who narrowly misses becoming King?' continues Tybalt, hopefully. 'You could get Andy to do the illustrations.'
I give him a withering stare. 'I've already got that T-shirt,' I say.
'Well, you should write a book about it then,' says Tybalt.
'How about, ' I say, 'I write a guide on how to train one's cats to show better manners and respect towards their owners?'
'I'm only trying to help,' says Tybalt. 'You always seem out of sorts when you aren't writing.'
'I'm writing now, ' I say. 'I'm blogging.'
'It's hardly proper writing though, is it?' says Pandora. 'I mean, most of it is drivel, isn't it, with the occasional crazy rant thrown in for variety.'
'It's very good quality drivel,' I say. 'Many people would give a lot to be able to write drivel like this. I can think of at least 100 people I teach every day for a start. And that's not including staff.'
'There's always the old fall back of the hamster/vampire conceit,' says Tybalt. 'Only 4 weeks to Hallowe'en.'
I sigh. 'Yes,' I say. 'Good old Hampires. But I don't know. Don't you think writing stories about Hampires is a bit, well, flimsy? I can't help think I ought to be doing something more challenging. Something more political, for example. Or philosophical.'
Pandora's yawn says it all. She's right, of course. I have to write silly stuff because it makes me cheerful. I mean, could you imagine having a writing career constructing speeches for the likes of Milliband and Balls, that famous firm of purveyors of rhetorical fantasy? No, me neither.
'Okay,' I relent. 'I'll give Dragatha Christie a shot and see what happens.'
'Murder most horrid, I reckon,' says Tybalt, as he slopes off to explore, once again, the land of the cupboard under the stairs.
Hence they have been suggesting writing projects for me, in the hope that I will hie me back to my arty-crafty writing room and leave them to follow their feline habits in peace i.e eating, sleeping, chasing Mr Light, and kicking cat litter all over the floor.
'How about a story about a cross-dresser detective thriller?' says Tybalt. 'With a main character called Dragatha Christie?'
'Hmmmm...' I say. 'Sounds mildly amusing. But I think I might get sued.'
'Or a story about a teacher who sees how much she can swear under her breath in class before one f her students hears her?' suggests Pandora.
'A bit too autobiographical,' I say.
'What about a short novel about a Prince who narrowly misses becoming King?' continues Tybalt, hopefully. 'You could get Andy to do the illustrations.'
I give him a withering stare. 'I've already got that T-shirt,' I say.
'Well, you should write a book about it then,' says Tybalt.
'How about, ' I say, 'I write a guide on how to train one's cats to show better manners and respect towards their owners?'
'I'm only trying to help,' says Tybalt. 'You always seem out of sorts when you aren't writing.'
'I'm writing now, ' I say. 'I'm blogging.'
'It's hardly proper writing though, is it?' says Pandora. 'I mean, most of it is drivel, isn't it, with the occasional crazy rant thrown in for variety.'
'It's very good quality drivel,' I say. 'Many people would give a lot to be able to write drivel like this. I can think of at least 100 people I teach every day for a start. And that's not including staff.'
'There's always the old fall back of the hamster/vampire conceit,' says Tybalt. 'Only 4 weeks to Hallowe'en.'
I sigh. 'Yes,' I say. 'Good old Hampires. But I don't know. Don't you think writing stories about Hampires is a bit, well, flimsy? I can't help think I ought to be doing something more challenging. Something more political, for example. Or philosophical.'
Pandora's yawn says it all. She's right, of course. I have to write silly stuff because it makes me cheerful. I mean, could you imagine having a writing career constructing speeches for the likes of Milliband and Balls, that famous firm of purveyors of rhetorical fantasy? No, me neither.
'Okay,' I relent. 'I'll give Dragatha Christie a shot and see what happens.'
'Murder most horrid, I reckon,' says Tybalt, as he slopes off to explore, once again, the land of the cupboard under the stairs.
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