The countdown to Christmas has started, and has sent me into the most terrific flap.
I have got so much to do that I am going to meet myself coming backwards. It has stopped being a Happy Event, and has turned into a horrible nightmare of un-bought Christmas presents, unmade mince pies, and un-even-started-to-be-thought-about hoovering.
I am feeling very gloomy.
The gloom has been brought about by an absolute flurry of end of term work to be done for my course. Obviously all of this sort of thing needs time and concentration. You cannot become JK Rowling in the odd ten minutes here and there in between taxi customers. I tried this with an assignment last week, and when I handed it in, the tutor said that it ‘had huge potential’.
Saying that a piece of writing has potential means that it could be good but it isn’t, and I knew that I would have to try harder.
I had a piece to write today, and so went off for a long tramp up the fellside with the dogs.
Actually it was only one dog, being Roger Poopy. His father went off to the farm with Mark to cut up firewood. That is to say, Mark was cutting up firewood, not the dog, obviously.
The dog has become such a senile nuisance on walks that it is very difficult to take him and retain a Zen sense of calm and tranquillity. I finish up bellowing at him, which he ignores because he is deaf, and losing him, which makes him upset. He has never had a lead, which would seem cruel now, and would deprive him of his last joy in life, which regrettably is a profound delight in other dogs’ wee. He ambled across the snow in the park yesterday going from one yellow patch to the next with apparent canine ecstasy, sniffing and dribbling with every appearance of utter contentment. Whilst he is thus occupied he does not notice that I have shouted myself hoarse and eventually gone off to look for him somewhere else. Then he panics, because he cannot now see well enough to be able to work out who I am until he is right next to me.
Roger Poopy helps with this by dashing after him and biting his ears, crossly.
Hence Mark took him to the farm, and I took Roger Poopy, who belted around chasing imaginary squirrels and came rushing dutifully back every single time I shouted, which we both thought was satisfactory.
I have found that the best of my stories are composed during this solitary walk. The mixture of the exercise and the peace and quiet seems to be very good for inspiration. I can breathe in the fresh air and walk, and the most unexpected ideas float into my head whilst I am doing it. Roger Poopy is used to my absent vagueness whilst I am thoughtfully engaged, and mills about occupying himself.
This morning I was so deep in thought that I almost walked into a colossal tree that had fallen across the track. It was a true giant, and I had to walk some way round to get back to the track again. On the other side of it was a scene of utter devastation. I counted at least thirty trees lying felled and dead on the banks of the stream, and I felt sad all over again.
This was not entirely a bad thing because it meant that I composed a fairly touching death scene with which to conclude my short story.
I was starving when I got home, and filled a plate with bread and honey to eat whilst I was writing, which might not have been very good for my waistline.
I spent the rest of the day finishing the story, which has got to be in tomorrow morning, and then got cross with Mark, who had promised to take my share of the day’s jobs whilst I did it, and who had forgotten even to wash the breakfast pots.
I washed them myself in time for dinner.
I am going to have to do something different. If I can’t even manage to wash the breakfast pots, I have no idea how I am going to find the time to make the Christmas cake, and the mince pies, and get everywhere cleaned up ready for the Christmas tree.
I have got another one to write before Thursday.
I suppose I had better get on with it.
