i have just made the irksome discovery that I am supposed to produce five hundred words of theatrical drama before my class on Monday evening.
So far I have not only not produced a single word, I have not even thought about it.
I went for a long walk with the dogs this morning and thought about lots of other things, like the heron I saw on the tarn, the continued absence of the swifts, and Roger Poopy’s digestive malfunction in the middle of somebody’s driveway.
I went home for a bucket of water and a long-handled brush to deal with the digestive malfunction. I did not leave it as a surprise for the person whose driveway it was, although I did consider it.
I am now having a small flap.
About the writing, that is, not the digestive malfunction, which appears to be recovering.
I wonder if I could pretend that the dog ate it. Obviously, I mean the writing again, and not the digestive malfunction. This is likely enough, actually, because she has eaten practically everything that she can reach. Her favourites are socks. I leave mine in my boots when I take them off, ready for the next outing, but she has become an expert at snuffling them out, and I have had to retrieve soggy socks from unexpected corners twice today already.
Fortunately it is not difficult to detect, because incidents of theft are accompanied by a snorting, snuffling noise. You might recollect a film called Gremlins. She is like that. The bit after they have turned into the monsters.
She has also become very good at raiding our work bags, and I caught her this morning trying to snaffle the emergency chocolate out of Mark’s. The bar was almost as big as she was, but she had it firmly between her teeth and was doing her best to yank it free.
I just put it back, he does not need to be told everything.
Indeed, I was going to write things this afternoon, but when it came to it it turned out that I simply did not have the energy. I sat and stared at the computer for five minutes, wondered vaguely who had won the local election, and then gave up.
It was the Liberal Democrats, by the way. It almost always is here. I am not pleased with this because they are such unsympathetic rotters about taxi fares. I do not generally vote Labour, as you know, but I could not have done so even if I had wished to this time, because they did not bother to field a candidate in Windermere.
I went downstairs instead. Instead of writing a play, that is, not instead of voting for Labour. I made coconut prawns for taxi picnics, and pineapple cakes, for any time when we have no bread.
That moment is now, actually. I have forgotten to fill up the bread maker. I will have to remember after work or breakfast will be a meagre affair in the morning.
I am now on the taxi rank. I have had a text from Oliver telling me, you will be pleased to hear, that he has gained a part in the school play, to be shown after their exams at the end of term.
He is to be First Murderer.
How I am looking forward to seeing it.
I am, actually. It is Macbeth, although given that he told me they had to do a song for their audition, I am a little perplexed, as I do not recall that Macbeth was a musical last time I saw it.
It is a modern world and all sorts of things are possible.
I will keep you in the loop about it.
That is a nice modern saying.
I am going to go away and think about five hundred dramatic words.
