Charley's log, day seventeen.
Application forms, drowning rain (I had squelchy boots for the rest of the day), Belfast, Chingo, lunch, an uncomfortable feeling settling in the pit of my stomach and then fading, home 10 minutes before mum, time to empty dishwasher and put dirty things in, general tidying up. Mum comes in complaining about liars, we watch some tennis (Hennin won against Stupid Williams YAY!), we discuss nothing much, she gets into complaining mode again, saved by the phone. Jo ringing for mum, she thinks I'm mum, I tell her I'm not coming to her wedding now.
Dad comes in, complains about work, we talk about nothing much, have a cup of tea. I get my book and rbing it to the table to read. Charley's joblessness comes back up, I tune in for, "Charley could handle Wendy's kids no problem" a silent alarm goes off in my head. Children, ye gods.
Thankfully one of my parents knows me, dad says the most amusing thing of the day: "WHAT? How exactly do you want to find these children? Because if Charley looks after them, when Wendy gets home she'd find them hanging from the light, pins in their eyes, crystals hanging from their lungs". I liked that imagery and told him so. My evil reputation as child killer- spread by my own father. Mum immediately realised (the look was hilarious) that he was right. I could not be responsible for children. She'd think all the worse of me if she knew the hamster story (we wanted to know if my hamster prefered tea or coffee, so we offered her some of both, she died about a week later).
I'm reading The Lovely Bones. I both like and hate it. It's too real at the same time as being completely fantastical. I like real in the way I like...Magneto. In that he is necessary for the story. Means to an end. That was a bad example. But I can't be bothered thinking of a better one.
The problem for me with reading a realistic book, is that I always want to write afterwards. But I find it difficult to connect these days, so really it's just painful. Like struggling to get your breath back when it's really fucking windy. Or trying to remember the word you were juuuuust about to use. I'm very into terrible comparisons tonight aren't I?
Blah.
)0(
Dad comes in, complains about work, we talk about nothing much, have a cup of tea. I get my book and rbing it to the table to read. Charley's joblessness comes back up, I tune in for, "Charley could handle Wendy's kids no problem" a silent alarm goes off in my head. Children, ye gods.
Thankfully one of my parents knows me, dad says the most amusing thing of the day: "WHAT? How exactly do you want to find these children? Because if Charley looks after them, when Wendy gets home she'd find them hanging from the light, pins in their eyes, crystals hanging from their lungs". I liked that imagery and told him so. My evil reputation as child killer- spread by my own father. Mum immediately realised (the look was hilarious) that he was right. I could not be responsible for children. She'd think all the worse of me if she knew the hamster story (we wanted to know if my hamster prefered tea or coffee, so we offered her some of both, she died about a week later).
I'm reading The Lovely Bones. I both like and hate it. It's too real at the same time as being completely fantastical. I like real in the way I like...Magneto. In that he is necessary for the story. Means to an end. That was a bad example. But I can't be bothered thinking of a better one.
The problem for me with reading a realistic book, is that I always want to write afterwards. But I find it difficult to connect these days, so really it's just painful. Like struggling to get your breath back when it's really fucking windy. Or trying to remember the word you were juuuuust about to use. I'm very into terrible comparisons tonight aren't I?
Blah.
)0(