I am going slightly crazy. This is due to the fact that I am in the throes of editing something I have been writing for the last six months. I have barely left the house for the last four days, and as I read paragraphs I once thought were good and now realise are absolute bobbins, I am finding it difficult to hang on to my sanity.
I suspect, in reality, where other people live – the paragraphs are neither the work of an unsung genius, nor bobbins, but somewhere in the middle, which is actually fair enough, but you know, it’s hard to see that right now. I’ve got to that point which is very like if you say the word banana ten times it starts to sound even more preposterous and alien than it actually is.
Wildlife is also oppressive. Thoughts of Chris Packham and how he would ‘love this’, are not working for me anymore.
I still have wasps merrily wasping about in the roof line above my bedroom window. They are staying outside at the moment, which is why they are still here and not being fumigated by a man called Steve with a dubious white van and fourteen gallons of paraffin. Nevertheless, as I watch them doing whatever the hell it is that wasps do, apart from irritate the living shit out of people and sting them just because they can, I find myself feeling hemmed in by them.
Ditto the extraordinary number of fruit flies which seem to be massing in my kitchen. I tried throwing all the tired and sad fruit away and buying new, happy, perky fruit. We have tried eating the fruit faster, but it is to no avail. They are colonising the kitchen, and while they are not exactly a bother, and live for approximately a nanosecond, making it pointless to kill them with the wasp loofah, they’re still annoying.
Domestically the house is festooned with the detritus of children’s lives. I found a BuildaBear light sabre on the draining board this morning. I pulled a chair out to sit at the dining room table and a small blizzard of bits of chopped and discarded paper fell onto the floor. I believe this is the remains of ‘homework’. There are six pairs of muddy Doc Martens making an obstacle course in the hall, none of them mine. Oscar’s sunglasses were in the cutlery drawer yesterday.
I am currently dreaming of minimalism, or a ruddy great skip on the drive.
I am also irritated by the fact that it is October. I don’t have time for it to be October. I’ve barely got to grips with September and it’s now gone. Oscar’s birthday is in two weeks and I have done absolutely nothing, except look at his list and weep into my empty purse. It is also half term that week. Even though they have only just gone back to school.
Don’t even mention the ‘C’ word to me. I had to resist stabbing someone in the eye with a fork who was merrily telling me how they’d already got their shopping done. OH FUCK OFF. YOU MAKE ME TIRED. is what I wanted to say, over their prone body, after the stabbing. I didn’t. I just smiled in that rictus like way and hoped they might trip over a loose paving stone on the way home.
After writing all this down, I am feeling marginally more the thing. I diagnose cabin fever. I am about to take the children to the library, and then on to the bakery, where I will sit over a bucket of coffee and a piece of cake the size of France. After that, everything will be better, even if it’s all still exactly the same when I get back.