Brainfried
I have a bit of a problem. I don’t like writing endings. I want to get on to the next thing as soon as possible - not one to be intimidated by a blank page. Actually I love a blank page because it means I haven’t fucked anything up yet and I don’t need to do swathes of editing to make whatever is on said page halfway decent.
That and finishing also means it will be time for SUBMISSIONS - possibly one of the most frightening words in the English language. Blank pages? No problem, mate. Submissions? Synopses? All that stuff? Fucking bowel-clearing stuff. Forget Senokot - if your bum’s bunged solid just start writing a synopsis with the knowledge that you are going to send it out. It’s the greatest natural laxative since stand-up comedy.
I’m also just pooped. (No, not in the sense of the above paragraph - dear lord, no.) Seriously knackered after moving house, although it’s been nearly three weeks and I probably should have got over it by now, but holy shit, it was a big move. Loads of stuff to shift. All in all it took about two weeks to pack everything up properly - and about a week of that was just books. Then there’s things like dinner services and glassware and it all has to be carefully packed piece by piece in newspaper if you want it to arrive in one piece and it just went on and on and on and on.
And then once you move and you get everything into a semblance of order there’s all those silly little faffy jobs to do - like fitting new curtains and blinds because the ones from the old place don’t fit and so you have to buy new or hem the old ones and pick out curtain poles and figure out things like bathmats. Really. I was looking for one of those duckboard ones that sit a centimetre or two above the shower floor and so keep your feet reasonably dry and stop you treading wet footprints all over the house after you come out of the shower.
FORTY QUID.
Seriously. Forty fucking pounds for what is essentially a bit of wood. And this was at B&Q so fuck knows what places like John Lewis are asking for the bloody things. No wayam I paying that. I’ve got a GCSE in basic carpetry - could probably knock one up myself. Okay, so you might want to top up your tetanus booster before standing on it, but I could probably do it.
But yeah, it’s all these silly little things - dustbins and bathmats and curtain poles and various fannyings about. Still, at least I don’t have to listen to those two depressing old alcoholics and their endless stupid circular arguments about nothing, and I don’t have to listen to that neurotic Yorkshire terrier barking at buses or teenagers calling each other slags at the bus-stop or Duracell Willy going off on a bender or have to hear every single cough, fart and fuck nextdoor. It is, thankfully, lovely and quiet, which is the reason we moved in the first place.
It is, however, a bit posh and I’ve never been more conscious of being common as muck since I had to deal with Mum’s crazy old boss and her family. The husband flew planes - for fun - and frequently nipped across to Suffolk or wherever for lunch. She did her Christmas shopping in New York and their son Edward was so posh he barely pronounced consonants at all. And they all had that terrifying, striding confidence that is the exclusive product (and in my view the sole benefit) of an obscenely overpriced education. But then me being me I could cheerfully swish past Madam in a corridor, mop and bucket in hand, safely confident that although she paid enough for those hardwood floors, she’s too soppy to clean them herself and besides, she wouldn’t even know where to start. I may be common, but I’m useful to have about the place. Clean floors are more than coronets, to paraphrase a terrible cunt.
I did feel a little more worthy once I got a foothold in the fancy kitchen and started using it - I think that’s the thing. It’s one thing to have expensive toys but to really appreciate them you have to be able to use them and use them well, and cooking is one thing I’m confident that I do quite well. And a gas hob. It has a gas hob. I really loved my old halogen hob, I really did and I feel bad comparing it unfavourably to gas, but gas hobs just do it for me and my control-freak instincts. The sheer pleasure of being able to poach fish or make a cheese sauce without having to scrub all that crap off the bottom of the pan - you turn it down and it goes down. It’s fabulous and oh fuck I’ve turned into a Fifties housewife. This can only end in poodle skirts and rushing to slap on the lipstick when hubby comes home. Only, you know, Fuck. That.
But yes - peace and tranquility and suddenly I’m shagged right out. Perhaps it’s two years of playing Whack-A-Mole with noise nuisances catching up with me and I had no idea how wearing the whole thing was on my nerves. I mean, I know the effect it had on my head - I’ve never sprouted so many grey hairs at once - but I suppose I was constantly on edge the whole time, never knowing if I’d get a shot at a decent night’s sleep because Douchebag had turned up again and the chances were he and Drunky would be up all night talking loudly about cocks while blasting Gloria Gaynor out of the window - while protesting their adamant heterosexuality, natch. All of this despite having spent the previous summer locked in some hideous preternatural courtship featuring ill-scrubbed alcoholic acts that would turn the most hardened author of slash fanfiction off the idea of Two-Men-Fucking forever.
I hate to admit it, but in a strange and awful way I might sort of miss them. Probably because I no longer have to listen to their shit.
That and finishing also means it will be time for SUBMISSIONS - possibly one of the most frightening words in the English language. Blank pages? No problem, mate. Submissions? Synopses? All that stuff? Fucking bowel-clearing stuff. Forget Senokot - if your bum’s bunged solid just start writing a synopsis with the knowledge that you are going to send it out. It’s the greatest natural laxative since stand-up comedy.
I’m also just pooped. (No, not in the sense of the above paragraph - dear lord, no.) Seriously knackered after moving house, although it’s been nearly three weeks and I probably should have got over it by now, but holy shit, it was a big move. Loads of stuff to shift. All in all it took about two weeks to pack everything up properly - and about a week of that was just books. Then there’s things like dinner services and glassware and it all has to be carefully packed piece by piece in newspaper if you want it to arrive in one piece and it just went on and on and on and on.
And then once you move and you get everything into a semblance of order there’s all those silly little faffy jobs to do - like fitting new curtains and blinds because the ones from the old place don’t fit and so you have to buy new or hem the old ones and pick out curtain poles and figure out things like bathmats. Really. I was looking for one of those duckboard ones that sit a centimetre or two above the shower floor and so keep your feet reasonably dry and stop you treading wet footprints all over the house after you come out of the shower.
FORTY QUID.
Seriously. Forty fucking pounds for what is essentially a bit of wood. And this was at B&Q so fuck knows what places like John Lewis are asking for the bloody things. No wayam I paying that. I’ve got a GCSE in basic carpetry - could probably knock one up myself. Okay, so you might want to top up your tetanus booster before standing on it, but I could probably do it.
But yeah, it’s all these silly little things - dustbins and bathmats and curtain poles and various fannyings about. Still, at least I don’t have to listen to those two depressing old alcoholics and their endless stupid circular arguments about nothing, and I don’t have to listen to that neurotic Yorkshire terrier barking at buses or teenagers calling each other slags at the bus-stop or Duracell Willy going off on a bender or have to hear every single cough, fart and fuck nextdoor. It is, thankfully, lovely and quiet, which is the reason we moved in the first place.
It is, however, a bit posh and I’ve never been more conscious of being common as muck since I had to deal with Mum’s crazy old boss and her family. The husband flew planes - for fun - and frequently nipped across to Suffolk or wherever for lunch. She did her Christmas shopping in New York and their son Edward was so posh he barely pronounced consonants at all. And they all had that terrifying, striding confidence that is the exclusive product (and in my view the sole benefit) of an obscenely overpriced education. But then me being me I could cheerfully swish past Madam in a corridor, mop and bucket in hand, safely confident that although she paid enough for those hardwood floors, she’s too soppy to clean them herself and besides, she wouldn’t even know where to start. I may be common, but I’m useful to have about the place. Clean floors are more than coronets, to paraphrase a terrible cunt.
I did feel a little more worthy once I got a foothold in the fancy kitchen and started using it - I think that’s the thing. It’s one thing to have expensive toys but to really appreciate them you have to be able to use them and use them well, and cooking is one thing I’m confident that I do quite well. And a gas hob. It has a gas hob. I really loved my old halogen hob, I really did and I feel bad comparing it unfavourably to gas, but gas hobs just do it for me and my control-freak instincts. The sheer pleasure of being able to poach fish or make a cheese sauce without having to scrub all that crap off the bottom of the pan - you turn it down and it goes down. It’s fabulous and oh fuck I’ve turned into a Fifties housewife. This can only end in poodle skirts and rushing to slap on the lipstick when hubby comes home. Only, you know, Fuck. That.
But yes - peace and tranquility and suddenly I’m shagged right out. Perhaps it’s two years of playing Whack-A-Mole with noise nuisances catching up with me and I had no idea how wearing the whole thing was on my nerves. I mean, I know the effect it had on my head - I’ve never sprouted so many grey hairs at once - but I suppose I was constantly on edge the whole time, never knowing if I’d get a shot at a decent night’s sleep because Douchebag had turned up again and the chances were he and Drunky would be up all night talking loudly about cocks while blasting Gloria Gaynor out of the window - while protesting their adamant heterosexuality, natch. All of this despite having spent the previous summer locked in some hideous preternatural courtship featuring ill-scrubbed alcoholic acts that would turn the most hardened author of slash fanfiction off the idea of Two-Men-Fucking forever.
I hate to admit it, but in a strange and awful way I might sort of miss them. Probably because I no longer have to listen to their shit.