The Agony of Creation...

I forgot to take a proper
before photo. But imagine
a fairly light curtain on  
that wall, that's broken
 so looks bad, and with 
photos pegged onto it.

There's that thing that happens when someone has given birth. Having survived the trauma of excreting a small human from their body, they vehemently utter statements like NEVER AGAIN or OVER MY DEAD BODY only to announce they are expecting their next child a few years later. Do they forget their immediate thoughts in the months and years that follow? Are they masochists? Or is the lure of motherhood too strong to be blown off course by the fading memory of torn skin and stitches? I have no idea. And yet, this week, I have lived analogously. Oh yes. No childbirth involved but plenty of physical activity that I'd forgotten was required since the last time I did this. If you read last week's blog you might have an inkling of what I speak. I only went and did it, didn't I. Yep, I decorated my spare room! I took on a DIY/home decor project, fully forgetting the hell involved since the last time I did it.

In the thick of it.

Almost as soon as I began, I regretted it. To fully survive the decorating process in tact, a daily regime of Pilates and yoga for the previous decade is a base-level requirement. Unfortunately, I did not have that under my belt. I had only unhooked the fairy light curtain and removed the pegged Polaroids that adorned it, before my upper arms felt like they were made of jelly. For the rest of the day my hand shook whenever I tried to lift a mug of tea to my mouth. As I was thigh-deep in plastic sheeting, paint brushes, and streaks of Polyfilla, drinking tea rarely happened. Not only were my arms sore but my head ached from the dehydration. My arms continued to shake with every rotation of the roller. Two coats on the ceiling and four on the walls did nothing to help my biceps chillax. Not one bit. And then there were my legs. A regular bending and crouching motion to apply masking tape to the skirting boards, saw the backs of my thighs roar with the 0-60mph surge they were experiencing for the first time in their lives. Sitting at a laptop does not prepare you for bending. Print that on a T shirt. It was clear I wasn't cut out for the physical exertions of wanting a new wall colour. And yet I had started so I had to finish. 

And I have finished. Like the sore new mum that's over her labour hell, I am metaphorically the parent to a bouncing baby bedroom. Put simply - because I think I've stretched the baby metaphor to confusion - a week since I decided I was up for a home project, it's all done and the aches and pains are fading. What was once my insipidly-lilac spare room/junk store is now the most beautiful teal and mustard boudoir in all the land. Like the mother with the kid, I'm utterly proud of my spare room, my own efforts, and my genius in creating such a phenomenon. Plus my leg muscles hurt less with each day. 

DRAMA 

I can honestly say my Linda Barker-esque desire to titivate my surroundings has been satiated. NEVER AGAIN. OVER MY DEAD BODY. BLAH BLAH BLAH. Of course, like the parent of multiple children, these are mere words. It's actions that count. At some point, I may find myself feeling like I did last week. When I can't sleep and I have the sudden urge to do a Changing Rooms. If that urge should strike, I should remind myself of some basic facts from the past seven days.

• Neptune's Castle is a lovely paint colour but it has been impossible to scrub from my nails. Walking around like Elphaba is not a good look, even in October.
• Stepping the wrong way down the step ladder helps no one. I managed to avoid splashing paint on the floor at the expense of landing on my elbow and back and spectacularly bruising my inner arm.
• If a project requires actual warm-up and cool-down moves, and/or the use of pain relief the following day, I might as well join an exercise class and cut out the middle woman. 
• One thing leads to another. Throwing out the junk stashed in the corner of the bedroom was one thing. This led to a garden shed clear out, as well as getting rid of some old crap from the garage. The upshot is that two whole skips have been filled. This was NEVER the plan.

Ta da! My baby!

JFK's interior designer, Sister Parish, once said, 'Behind every attractive room there should be a very good reason.' And she's right. Last week I blamed COVID for forcing my brain to obsess about a new bedroom colour scheme, and I'm sure it's partly that. But there's more at play here. It's been a week since I sent my new book to the editor. With that gone for weeks, and my control over it removed, I am clearly at a loose end. My brain has focused on writing it for over a year. I suppose the idea of doing instead of thinking about something was too strong an urge to ignore. With nothing to tinker with on my laptop, I got slap-happy with a paint brush. What is apparent, however, is that as I continue to wait for book feedback, I really need to find alternative activities to fill the void. I'm so over stretching and bending. So if you need me, you'll find me resting horizontally, keeping my muscles at peak slack. At least until my next paint colour obsession hits. When I've forgotten all the agony involved.

Have a lovely week, folks.

The Struggle is Teal...

Me neither. But I DO know how much
5 litres of Valspar paint will set me back.
#latenightcostings

I've got it into to my head that I want to decorate my spare room.

This isn't like me. I'm rarely up for home-renovation unless someone else is doing it. But after a recent sleepless night, where all I could think was how beautiful teal paint looks, I've thought of nothing else since.

I know I don't have the personality for taking on projects that require effort. Especially physical effort which is the worst kind IMHO. After an initial flurry of excitement about whatever household project I've thought of that week, I move on fairly quickly. I know from past experience that if I excitedly start taking down pictures and boxing up ornaments, then fast forward five years and the bare walls and boxed nick-nacks are still in place. The room will look identical. It'll just have five more years of wear and tear, and no decoration to soften it up. My obsession with teal walls will pass. I know this.

This time last year. Turns out I
have quite the work ethic when
I'm helping someone else. I just
struggle to find it in my own
home.

Except will it? It's been a week now. I've spent further sleepless nights sourcing curtains and bedding. I know the exact colour of teal that I'd go for. (Valspar's Neptune Castle or Dulux's Teal Ripple, of course.) I've even bought a mustard blanket online that would look great draped over the bed when it's done. Except it's all in my head. I haven't done anything yet.

Right now,  I'm still in the safety zone. I can enjoy all the sleepless window-shopping without having to put in the effort - the physical exertion that's required when dragging out furniture and scrubbing hardened dust off skirting boards. I can have the fun without the hassle - without the commitment of seeing it through. I'm on the edge of the precipice. I can turn back if I choose. But will I choose? I have no idea.

I blame COVID. I might as well. It's buggered up everything else, hasn't it. Before it came along, I slept fairly well. Then, once March hit, I'd have a big chunk of daily awakeness in the early hours. Back then I filled the time with reading, or scrolling Twitter. Now that the awakeness has returned (thank you Tier Three!) I've filled the time with paint colours and the search for the perfect bedside lamp. It's a sort of progress, I suppose.

I AM Moira. A TEAL dream.

So the next week is going to be an interesting one. Will I start pulling panel pins out of the walls? Will I spend money on masking tape and rollers. Or will my teal fantasy fade into the background as my mind obsesses about something else. I literally have no idea. What a time to be alive. I'll keep you posted, natch. In the meantime, I'll box up a few bits and pieces from the bedroom, just in case.

Have a lovely week, folks.

I Feel Bad About My Hat...

Just so you know, I've bought a hat. 

More of that later. But doesn't that sound like the opening to a poem? You know the kind I mean. A lament on the changes that middle age ushers in. Something along the lines of Jenny Joseph's Warning*, or Nora Ephron's conversational essay I Feel Bad About My Neck. It seems when women reach an interesting age, they revel in sharing their continuing insecurities whilst making it clear they hold no truck in what lesser mortals think. Jenny Joseph's protagonist warns everyone to expect disruptive and socially unacceptable behaviour from her in the years to come. Meanwhile Ephron counsels younger women to appreciate their youth in ways of which they cannot conceive until that youth has passed. 

I've just read Caitlin Moran's cheerful polemic, More Than a Woman. In it, she coins the phrase 'hagdom.' It's a wholly positive description, describing the point when women glory in their lack of arsedness. When comfy shoes and a baggy jumper piss over tottering in tailored clothes with no stretch. Likewise, journalist Sam Baker has a podcast called The Shift. Each week I listen to her interview a woman about middle age, the menopause and getting older in today's society. The final question to all her guests is the succinct, 'How many fucks do you give?' The answers range in detail, but they can be collectively summarised as 'not as many as I once did.' 

Now back to my hat. Do I suit hats? I don't think so. Is that a problem? Nahhh. 

I've come to the realisation that if I like a hat, and it will provide the dual service of keeping my hair dry and my head warm, then it's already earning its keep. How it looks is irrelevant. These are wise words of course, but not necessarily the first to spring to mind. How it looks is nestled in there somewhere. Lower than it once was, perhaps, but still there. But first, let's look at the evidence in question. Here is my hat...

Now let's assess. (And when I say 'Let's' I do not mean let us. I mean let me. I will assess. No help needed, thanks.) When I took that photo I liked my hat. It had just arrived and the fact it fitted my massive head had been instantly pleasing. I selfied up and felt secure about my wardrobe choices. Of course within minutes, there were doubts. From the depths of my brain came an image from my parent's record collection. Simon and Garfunkel's Greatest Hits came floating up from my subconscious. A quick search later and I understood why. See...

Obviously what I'd done was create a homage to both Simon AND Garfunkel in my sartorial choices that day. I shared these thoughts in real time on the family WhatsApp where my mum told me I also looked like Donovan. More searching followed. I decided to assume she meant Donovan from his youth rather than his look now, although who's to say. Anyway, those were the thoughts I had upon my hat arriving. 1. I like it. This looks nice. Followed by 2. I look like a 1970s male folk duo, or a 1960s male pop star. As someone not completely comfortable displaying overt femininity, I accepted this. And let's face it, The Boxer is a really great song. Everything was fine. I still liked my hat. More or less. 

Several weeks on from the start of hat ownership and I've worn it twice. Once for a solo walk and once to Sainsburys when I hadn't washed my hair. This isn't enough. And yet there are too many times when I'm about to put it on, when I have doubts. On a particularly PMT-ridden day last week, I could not get the image of George R.R. Martin out of my head. (I imagine he has felt similarly about me.) I need to get over this. I need to reconnect with my first thought when it arrived. I like it. This looks nice. 

In many ways I'm at the interesting age I described earlier. I am more than ready to embrace hagdom. I've worn trainers or trainers-lite every day** for the past three years. My outfit is formal when it contains an alternative to PJ bottoms and no food stains from the previous evening. If I were being honest, I'd say I probably hit hagdom some time ago. Yet if Sam Baker were to ask me how many fucks I give, I'd remember my hat and have to accept it's a number higher than zero. Maybe I'm really channelling Jenny Joseph in all of this. Maybe I'm warning everyone that I see a future involving hats and I'm breaking the world in gently. Or maybe I'm going down the Nora Ephron route. I'm highlighting my insecurities to get them in the open. Then I can crack on being a hat-wearer without them interfering. Who knows? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

I think for now, whenever I toy with wearing it and start to think I might not bother, I'll conjure up the spirit of those that have gone before. Hat wearers of the past that broke down barriers and led the way. Whenever I feel insecure niggles in the future, I'll remember nineties teen hit, Blossom, and all my fears will be allayed. It's the only way.

Have a lovely week, folks.

*You know this one. You'll have read it before.  It opens with When I am an old woman I shall wear purple. I read it at school, but it was also recited by an ex-boss of mine at her retirement do. It's a cracker and very much the vibe I'm moving towards.

*Two exceptions spring to mind. 1. My brother's wedding which involved red sandals with a low block heel. 2. The Pharmacy Christmas do, where my shoe of choice was a patent leather brogue. I swanned around like I was Katherine Hepburn, relishing every single second my legs didn't ache. A Christmas do where I didn't need codeine for backache the following day? Novel.

Back to (Thinking About) the Future...

Kamala has no CLUE what I'm on about.

What a difference a week makes! Or perhaps that should say, what a further continuation of last week's COVID rules, a week makes. Does that even make sense? Probably not. To be honest, my head has stopped caring about such writing basics as clarity, coherence, and sense. I'll be forgetting full stops next

As I predicted last time (well, me along with everyone else), the rules have changed again for some parts of the country. Those parts include mine, my parents', one sister's and two brothers' local areas. At the moment, only three of the nine Bonds with whom I once shared a house, are living under the national rule of six. The rest of us have similar albeit slightly differently worded restrictions that keep getting more complicated or further clarified depending on what tweet you see. It's no wonder I'm forgetting how to spel. 

Last week I bemoaned the fact that I was a planner that was unable to plan. I laid out a few sketchy ideas about how I could satisfy that part of myself, whilst everything was up in the air. Reader, this was not enough. I began last week feeling untethered and distracted. My usual surge of joie de vivre that kicks in with the weather change, was muted and hard to pin down. After living through the Summer hell (I know, I know, some of you LOVE it) I was getting concerned that my favourite time of year was passing me by without me being aware of it. Corona took my birthday, my holidays, and my freedom to have an impromptu pint. I'd be damned if it took my lovely Autumn and Winter glow too. After mainlining seasonal movies on Netflix (Autumn Dreams, Harvest Moon, October Kiss... yep all real!) I realised I needed to bring out the big guns. It was time to plan Christmas.

When I run the world, I'll make it mandatory for
every blog post and article - both journalistic and 
academic - to include a When Harry Met Sally 
reference. Even when it's as tenuous as this one.
(I typed FALL into my US Gif finder and I got this.)

What I said last week still stands. Like everyone else, I have no idea what Christmas will look like. If the local restrictions are lifted, I'm guessing it'll be to the national rule of six. That still means a big rethink from the usual Christmas get-together in my house. But not knowing who I'm going to be with, if anyone, does not stop me planning. Oh no. My kind of planning - the kind that makes me feel happy, excited, and secure - is all about the little stuff. The tiny thrills that can be dropped into an otherwise standard Winter's day. Compiling this list over the past week, has tethered me down once again. It's rooted my mind back to looking forward, instead of floating in a fog. Making plans that will ultimately be cancelled is rubbish. Making such low-level plans that they can be fitted into any spare time that opens up, is healthier I'd say. But stop listening to me rambling on. Take a look!

• Winter walks with hats, scarves, gloves, and coats. Hot toddies on return

• Buy poinsettias

• Make stollen

• Evening drive to see people's decs with Christmas music

• Make Nigel Slater's figs with maple syrup and anise liqueur. (For hot toddies after walks.)

• New Pjs

• Make Norwegian apple cake

• Candles lit everywhere

• Cook Scandi caramelised potatoes 

• Fire in the garden - cook jacket potatoes

• Nigella's 24-hour ham with mustard and wraps

• The Radio Times with highlighter

• Read Christmas books - Hercule Poirot's Christmas by Agatha Christie, or Whiteout by Ragnor Jónasson

• Watch Wonder Woman 1984 that comes out on Christmas week

My version of Nigel Salter's fig liqueur.
Stevia, maple syrup, white
wine, figs, vanilla, spices
and vodka. In 4 weeks
time I can strain, heat, and drink!

Those were the activities that made me feel good by simply typing them on a document. Imagine the power of experiencing them in the flesh. I'm simply giddy and glowing at the thought. I did have a few other additions to my list. They were to do with the likelihood of not seeing anyone outside my home on Christmas Day and Boxing Day. They included 'Christmas dinner but only the foods I like' and 'Champagne for breakfast!' Perfectly valid ideas should they be needed. Who wants veg anyway? I've also pencilled in every single Christmas film that was ever made, as well as the instruction of 'Make a boss cheeseboard for constant picking'. It's fair to say that overall, food features quite highly.

I'll be honest though, I had a mental wrangle with myself about posting this in October. Is it too early to be thinking about late December yet? Probably. Is there even any point thinking about how the season will pan out? Not really. But has making this list over the past week made me feel upbeat and positive? HELL YES. If nothing else, my mind is back. I'm excited about something. Anything. The greatest joy about planning ahead is how it provides a lovely build-up period as well as the eventual thing itself. Looking back over the 'ease' of the late Summer, the fun things that happened - meals out and mini breaks, for example - couldn't be gleefully and giddily anticipated until the day they arrived. For those of us that enjoy the delay of gratification, that's a bit of a head frig. So to those that are annoyed I've dropped the C-bomb so early, I'm sorry. But by making my list of Winter Fun, I've rebooted my brain. I can enjoy a bit of build-up once again. And with that fixed, I know my ability to make sense, spell words, and use basic punctuation as standard, will be robust and secure once more.

Have a lovely week, folks.