I was awoken early this morning by the sound of ducks. Ducks! Plural. I kept batting the noise away from my slumber, dismissing it to be too ridiculous to believe. Ducks don’t come to Moulton. Looking out of the window, I spotted them – three in total, all flapping and honking (they might have been geese, they were so cross.) They may have been under attack from The Moulton Magpies, but they were giving as good as they got, and just as I reached for my glasses, they took flight, looking just like the ducks on the Ogdens’ parlour wall, as they headed in unison for my open window. I shut it sharpish, and as I was now wide awake, and the sun was shining, I decided that this should be the first day of lockdown when I would rise before 8am.
I made my way downstairs, to find Mr C already showered and dressed, with the TV on. As the saying goes, (at least in our house), it’s never too early for Border Force. Wherever he is, as long as there is a TV, you can be sure he will be watching Border Force. He likes the New Zealand version where they are laid back but still get the job done, but also the Brazilian versions where they are hard as nails. At least I think it’s Brazil. To be honest, they all merge into one, following the same plot and delaying tactics, squeezing two minutes of action into an hour long programme by constantly revisiting the events many times, presumably to build tension, and then shocking the audience with yet another commercial break, just as they think they are going to find out what happens to the young girl with the sad eyes ,who the dogs have been barking at. I can tell which version is showing before I enter the kitchen, by Mr C’s accent. Today it’s Australian. Yay!
While I waited for the coffee machine to warm up, I opened my Mac Book, to find that L had forgotten to log out of her Spotify – from which I am BANNED for life, because any songs I search for, pollute her play list. I made hay while the sun shone, searching up songs from my childhood – The Trail of the Lonesome Pine, Remember you’re a womble, Puppy Love, Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep and anything by Pinky and Perky. I also found a Disney hits compilation and listened to We’re all in this together from High School Musical (which T used to call High Sickle Musical – too cute!), followed by Step in Time from Mary Poppins. What a glorious way to begin a day She will be furious at me, but it’s worth it to hear such jolly songs.
Day 7982 of Lockdown. Lockdown is being gently eased. Shops are now open, although with social distancing measures in place. As is public transport, although it should only be used if necessary, and face coverings must be worn. My kids are very excited and although I have tried to tell them that it isn’t over, and that they still need to be careful and it still isn’t a good idea to mix, even at a distance with people from too many households, they are not listening to me. They hear the headline and that is enough. The rest is just nagging!
Running is going well although I have been trying to set off a little earlier this week as it gets too warm nearer to lunchtime.. I tried for about a week to run every morning, in an effort to stave off the effects of my battle with coconut rings, but I was struggling to sleep at night. My calf muscles were aching so much, and I have come to the conclusion that my body is just too old to push that hard. How does Eddie Izzard do it? He must be super human. So I have reverted to every other day, which is fine. I am losing the battle with snacks, and I think I have probably gained around a stone during Lockdown, but I am still 3 stone lighter than I was 2 years ago. This week, I am resolving to be strict with myself and hope that I can get back on the straight and narrow. T is not helping as she has discovered the most amazing recipe for peanut butter cookies, with only three ingredients – peanut butter, sugar and an egg. They are beautiful but more than a little heavy on the hips. I have banned her from making them. And I have finally perfected the art of making the perfect Yorkshire pudding, which might also account for some of the extra pounds I seem to have gained. But no more!
I have stopped buying biscuits and there is a total embargo on crisps, but more particularly salt and vinegar Pringles, which are my achilles heel. The only person who loves them more, is my son H. We have been talking about how the washing machine is playing up during Lockdown and shrinking everyone’s clothes, and I have finally had to tell him that it might actually be due to the Pringles. He is very cross that I have misled him. The last time he was this cross was when I had to own up to not being 21 years old, when he was about 7. In both cases, I had thought he might have worked out the truth for himself. But also cute!
I am still enjoying walking, although unless I say I am going to the shop, I am
generally unaccompanied. I walk to the Crowfields, which is a glorious haven of several adjoining fields on the outskirts of the town. I can pretend that I am on holiday in Suffolk, with just the birds and the sunshine and the wildflowers, whose names I should really know. Might be elderflower, might be thistles. Every day I pass a tall reedy looking plant which has a strange ball like structure spun around the top of it, with holes in it. I have ideas that it might be the vacated home of a cute dormouse family. Now I wish I had not googled images of mouse nests. Not cute at all, as it turns out!
The hair saga continues. I have still not yet washed my hair, although I rinse it in water several times a week. I think it looks fine, and Mr C says it doesn’t smell at all – although the kids reckon I smell like the dogs. The jury is still out. I think what I am slowly realising, is that I am invisible and that nobody notices what I look like as long as stomachs are full and there are clean clothes in the laundry. I often say ‘you’ll miss me when I’m gone’, to which they all look around in alarm, saying ‘who said that?’
We had birthdays at the beginning of the month, and T decided that she wanted a cocktail party. She and I dressed up, and H acted as bartender at our very own Lockdown bar. It was fabulous, we actually managed to have a proper good night, with far too many Espresso Martinis, Tequila Slammers and crazy dancing Gangnam Style. H chose to have a BBQ for his, and requested a giant cookie instead of a birthday cake.
The writing journey continues, although it is now becoming more of a quest than a journey. The ending of my first novel has been decided, with lots of input from my lovely Beta readers, and a few weeks ago, I took great delight in typing THE END. And then it was onto writing a synopsis, to outline the plot, the themes, the characters etc. I have written a number of different versions which I hope will satisfy most requirements.
And just when I think I am almost done, I discover that there are a million literary agencies to research, to find the perfect one for me. And in each of those agencies, are a thousand different agents (I am a writer, prone to exaggeration, what can I say?), all with differing wants and needs. And in order to find the one that suits me best, I must research the hundreds of authors they each represent, looking at the tens of books they have each written, in order to gauge the agents’ tastes, to find the best match. It is a massive haystack, let me tell you!
So, that is where I am at. I have sent off a few submissions, and I am planning which ones to approach next, as (or most likely when) the rejections begin to roll into my inbox. In each cover letter, I also need to explain why I am interested in this particular agent – which is why I have also spent hours online this weekend, watching YouTube videos of interviews with agents, and googling ‘what do authors REALLY think of agent x?’ It does seem that writing the book really might have been the easiest part. At least I have started the ball rolling now, and I am planning to spend the time productively as I wait for replies that probably won’t ever come (We are very busy, so if you don’t hear from us within 3 months, please assume that we are not interested.) I am going to pick up some of the early drafts of book two, which I haven’t worked on in over a year. Who am I kidding? That is what I should be doing, but in reality, I will be sitting staring at a screen, hitting the refresh button on my emails every few seconds.
And finally, onto haircuts. The bane of my life. Last week it was hair dye, (L now has violet streaks, T has green streaks at the front, the rest is burgundy). The previous week’s obsession was beard trimming ( not mine). And this week, Mr C has invested in a haircutting set (not dissimilar to the pink plastic one I had as a little girl in 1975) although this one means business. It arrived in a little black carrying pouch, with zip on three sides, not unlike a pencil case. Inside are a pair of scissors, a pair of thinning scissors, and a black cape, which Mr C was wearing, but I have taken it off him, as I think it is for customers in his salon, to protect their clothes. He has also invested in a set of Remington clippers, and after watching a few videos on You Tube, he is now fully qualified. I don’t mind him cutting his own hair, although I wish he would choose different locations than in the bathroom (usually immediately after I’ve cleaned it and washed the floor.) Or at the table in the garden, just before lunch is ready. Little hairs are everywhere. And not content at cutting his own hair, he has also talked H into letting him cut his too. I am hiding the dogs.
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