Apologies for the patchy posting of the last few days, and a warning that this is likely to continue into the week. I am, you see, in the death throes of my book, and it is claiming all of my attention at the moment. The children are ragged and barefoot, and begging for spare change. Lice are weaving slaloms in their beards and they’re having to crack their undies with a sledge hammer (the children, not the lice, although they may also be having to do this). They have been up since dawn, queueing for cabbages, and we are eating a great deal of soup because it isn’t very complicated.
All things considered the house looks like it has been given the once over by a band of marauding pirates.
All I am interested in at the moment is whipping chapter twelve into shape frankly. I do have a lot of chapter twelve, but I would say its shape currently resembles a Cadbury Mis-shape or possible the Kraken, or Milton Keynes, rather than a nice, healthy chapter with a beginning, a middle and an end.
At the moment I have an extraordinary amount of beginning, a skeletal middle and a piffling end. This is not good.
I had thought chapter twelve would be it, but given that one book has now turned into a trilogy, I need to create an air of mystery so we can trot into volume two with joie de vivre and possibly a deer stalker, so we will also have a brief tussle with chapter thirteen, and possibly an epilogue.
I have until the end of the week to do this, and write forty Santa letters for my yearly foray into festivities. Being Santa in written form is the only Christmassy thing I actually both volunteer for and enjoy, with the possible exception of stuffing Panettone into my mouth until I explode.
It’s important to have a hobby. It takes you out of yourself. Literally in the case of exploding.
Talking of exploding, and of soup, both of which I sort of was, I was injured by soup last week. I was going to tell you then, but you know, the memory was still raw, and plus I had to climb up on my soap box what with one thing and another, and the moment was gone.
So, yes. I was making soup last week, in the manner of all hail the great Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. I had extra Brownie points for using leftovers and all that environmental, recycling malarkey. Nor did I care what shapes my parsnips were, which Rosie Boycott totally approves of. I was stirring away, congratulating myself on being an earth mother and the like, when the soup rose up against me in a great, seething whirlpool of boiling veg.
It blopped at me, dear ones.
I know. It’s shocking really. You give a soup a good upbringing and then it just lets you down.
Not only did it blop at me, but it blopped right out of the pan and smacked me in the neck with a gobbet of molten soup.
Despite the immediate and constant application of lavender oil I have a scar, and have been mortally injured by soup. I know for a fact that I will never be the same again. I also suspect my career as the next Yehudi Menuhin is now firmly off the cards.
Also, now, when I go to collect my medal from the Queen I am going to have to fashion a commemorative tea towel into a polo neck to disguise it.
Outraged of Knighton.