It is very odd indeed not to have a book to write.
It is a bit uncomfortable and lonely, as if my characters have suddenly bundled me out of their world, and slammed the door behind me. I am hopping uncertainly from one foot to another wondering if I ought to tap politely and ask to be let back in.
I got up this morning to an empty world. There was no last-night’s chapter sitting smugly on the computer waiting to be reread and edited, no email from my friend who was kindly reading it for me to say that it was coming on splendidly, and I didn’t stop talking unexpectedly in the middle of breakfast as a scene suddenly played out in my head with startling results.
Instead I sat in bed sadly with my coffee and listened to Mark telling me about solar panels, without a single idea of my own to offer in exchange, and thought wearily that I should hoover the living room.
It has become very plain indeed.
I don’t like not writing a book.
Therefore it has become very plain. I am going to have to write another. It can be called Son of Magnum Opus, and it can follow on from the first. There are loads of things in the first book that might turn into something really exciting if only I poked them enough. Watch this space.
Since I didn’t have a book to write the day was full of very ordinary things. We went to the chemist, and to the Co-op, and Mark brought the logs in whilst I did the washing. We hoovered and tidied and I made our picnic. Then we drank a pot of tea sociably at the kitchen table and went back to bed.
It is Saturday, and of course now we are at work. It is very quiet, which is tiresome, because of the mortgage being due. The night is still young and we might get busy later on, although probably not busy enough to pay the mortgage. This is the sort of challenge that makes life interesting.
It has not been a very interesting night at work yet. Last night there was a young man who was so intoxicated that he tried to kiss me, which was flattering, but it was very dark.
Mark occasionally gets young ladies in his taxi who suggest that he might like to look at parts of their anatomy rather than asking them for the fare. This is because they don’t understand about the mortgage. He always declines this offer, partly because we have a competition to see who has made the most money at the end of the night, and he doesn’t like to lose. He has got to be quite tactful about this, because it is not polite to sound ungrateful, but it is not easy to do without upsetting a young lady’s self esteem.
Sometimes people make very improper suggestions. This happens to me rather less now than it used to twenty years ago, because in those days I used to wear a low cut top which used to help with getting decent tips. Also I had fewer wrinkles. Nevertheless there is still a significant number of young gentlemen who seem to believe that I might be interested in inspecting the contents of their underwear, and display these for my benefit. This has happened to me so often that it is no longer even surprising or deserving of a witticism in return. Nevertheless, every young man who does it is very pleased with his own amusingness, as if he were the very first to have been bold enough to consider such a thing.
It is a splendid way to earn a living. I think on the whole that I won’t mind if it is a quiet night.
We can worry about the mortgage later.
