Dash

Dear everybody,

I am bashing as much diary out as I can before my class starts, which is in the very near future.

I have had a day of house things, which has been remarkably productive, but gone on far longer than it should have done, which is the fault of the stupid Government light nights. It is so lovely to be in the winter when one can slowly wind down to a close at around half past four, and be thinking seriously of wine by half past five. I have only just about got round to the cup of tea part of the day.

I have made biscuits and cakes, a huge shepherd’s pie and a cheesecake. I have cleaned and watered the conservatory, swept and mopped the kitchen, scrubbed the hearth and hoovered absolutely everywhere, except the children’s bedrooms which are tomorrow’s job, they are on a separate floor so I don’t need to worry about them.  I have washed and dried the sheets and the towels, and taken the dogs up over the fells. I have fed both children, mixed some gin cocktails for Lucy to take home with her, and remembered to telephone the doctor about Mark’s prescription.

I have not written any of my current story, maybe tomorrow.

I am now absolutely wiped out and frantically trying to finish this so that I can drink some of my tea before class starts.

I am not going to be able to put my hand up for anything because of cleaning the fireplace out. I have scrubbed and scrubbed my hands but they are still black.

On a happier note, you will be interested to learn that I have been accepted for the Master’s’s degree course in September. I am very pleased indeed about this because I wanted to do it, but now that I know I can, a huge dose of trepidation has set in.

It is Cambridge and, well, very Cambridgey.

I am not Cambridgey.

My writing really is for the sort of people who think that Boaty McBoatface is a brilliant name for a boat, and who think that there is a really easy way of telling the difference between men and women. Indeed, I do not just write for that sort of people. I am that sort of people.

I never feel inspired to write the sort of poem written by the poetry tutor, who went for a walk by the oak trees and their reflection in the lake made her think of her womb.  The only time I ever, ever think about my womb is when I get a letter from the doctor telling me that I am due for a smear test, and I don’t think about it very much then.

Certainly it would never have occurred to me to write a poem about it.

I am not exactly sure that I am going to fit in.

I think I will be studying at Madingley Hall, as a part of Lucy Cavendish College, assuming that we have saved up the massive fees by then. I do not know whether to be excited or terrified. Certainly I had better get a couple of new T shirts. I am about to turn this one back to front because my class starts shortly, and this one is splashed with a rather unbecoming combination of  bleach and soot.

There, I have done that already. I am now ready to be educated. I am sorry that this is a bit short, but I am going to dash off and try and concentrate.

I will see you tomorrow.