Monday, 8 December 2008

Shop Girl Blogged Off

I won’t be a famous novelist because I’ll be delivering a light fitting.
We won’t charge for the delivery since we just want the customer to love us and not go to John Lewis. The customer won’t offer to pay for the delivery because they assume that’s what little shop people do on a Saturday night.
Mum and I will drive around in the dark listening to Magic FM, singing along to the good ones and imitating the husky presenter’s voice.
Please call in with your magic moment... she whispers.
But we’re not having a magic moment so we won’t call in.
My idea of a magic moment is sitting in the sun with a cold beer and a bag of crisps.
When that happens, I’ll call in.
Meanwhile I’ll grieve for the ‘night in’ that never happened.
Because I look forward to ‘nights in’ like kids look forward to Christmas.
Staying at home is my only hope to make it as a writer. Staying at home and chaining myself to the computer.
When the chance passes me by I’m overwhelmed with frustration.
I want to throw pens around and spill ink.
On Saturday night, I spill a cup of tea over a Christmas card I’ve spent ages making and go to bed.
But there’s still Sunday.
Mum bursts into my bedroom early morning.
“What have you done with my glove?”
“No,” I say, pulling my duvet over my nose.
“I’ve got lemon, fennel, normal...”
“No, I’ve got my coffee machine.”
“But don’t you want a hot drink first?”
I suppose an early start is always good.
After all, there are so many things I want to achieve today, apart from a novel, screen-play, short story and this blog.
For starters, I’m going to clean out my underwear drawer and reclaim the five minutes a-day wasted releasing my knickers from knotted tights.
Mum wheels her suitcase to the door and kisses me goodbye. She’s off to see my dad and I’ll have the whole day to potter about by myself.
After the door has slammed I wait for a knock.
She never leaves without coming back at least once to get something she’s forgotten.
When I think she’s not coming back, I run upstairs to the loo.
There’s a knock.
I groan and hurry back downstairs.
Mum is on the door step.
“I don’t know where my passport is!” she says.
I won’t be a famous novelist because I’ll be looking for a passport.
And when I stop looking for the passport, I’ll see my Mum still looking for the passport and I’ll start looking for it again.
Then when I finally find the passport, ten hours later, I’ll sit down at my laptop and grieve for my lost day.
And throwing pens about and spilling ink won’t help one bit.

(Poster compliments of The Independent - can be purchased from The Imperial War Museum)

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