Writers blog 07092016
My worst fears have been realized …
I woke with three hounds at my face. It was 5.30am and I’d fallen into my bedroom not more than three hours before. They’d been walked, they’d done the toileting thing not three hours ago, but 5.30 is an unwritten law in my dogs minds. Wake up. Walk me. Or else. Being threatened by dogs at stupid o'clock in the morning isn't clever, but you can't tell a dog.
Of course, me being a writer, I like the early start, eh? Get up before the need for a beer calls. Read, plan and write. Set a plan, work out deadlines and plough head first into the depths of your prose without looking up or taking a breath.
But I’ve lost a dog. It’s always the same dog, and it’s dark so he’s not far away, but I can’t see the little fucker. So I’m stuck with the two ‘bad’ dogs on the lead, but the good one not coming when I call his name. Why do I call? He never does recall. So we sit and wait and think about the cold cans sitting in the fridge, wishing we’d brought them with us.
Of course we could go home and bring the lap top back along with the beers, but that doesn’t seem right. Well it’s not so much not right, but embarrassing because we know the burly bird with the collie walks the park around six, and then there’s the dick with the lurches’ who never says hi and takes up the whole park with his ball throwing.
So we stand about calling the damn dog and he sidles in from the dark with his tale wagging and you got to be kind, because he did actually come to your call. He just took all damn morning to do it.
So I’m home, well behind schedule, but the dogs have collapsed because it’s early and there is an opportunity to sleep, eh, and I’m thinking maybe an hour might make me a little fresher for the day ahead.
But No. Sit. Set the clock and go. And go we do. Now fair do’s I’m no Robert Randisi, but I set my limits by the half hour, pushing myself to write, or rewrite with practiced targets, but come 9am when I know the pub down the road has opened I’m thinking a break is needed. Of course the laptop comes with me to the beer barn, but I have 'talk to me' tattooed hard and fast to my forehead. Football and weather, politics and fishing, are our preferred topics, but bitching about the service dominates, and then we have to go back in history and bemoan the dead pubs and reminisce about how many beers could be bought for a shekel in the good old days.
I get back home and I’ve had a couple of beers but I’m okay. I like to read and review so I set to work but she’s got to go out to some doctors appointment, which means she’s up, and when’s she’s conscious she needs to talk. But with the door closing the bed is free. The bed is never free, so I figure I could catch a quick nap and that would leave me fresh as, eh, for the afternoon writing session.
Well she comes home and she’s hungry and she don’t like to enter the kitchen. Well to be honest she don’t like to leave the bedroom, but she has a medical condition, honest that don’t allow her anywhere near a cooker or a sink. Or a bath. So I’m up and fixing her lunch, which is cool, because I’m thinking about the story, and ideas are coming at me like flaming comets and I’ve got a beer on the go and all is good. Well it would be if I was writing it all down, but she’s got a prescription needs picking up, so I’m off down the street.
Again I bring the laptop thinking I might sit by the pier, watch the waves and curse the gulls, and get some inspiration. That works well for a half hour but one old boy asks me for the time, then what I’m doing then starts telling me about how old he is, how sick he is, and how this computer thing,(he points at my laptop)is just too much for him. Admittedly the man is on a scooter, almost blind and has a Parkinson shake to his hands, so a lot of stuff is too much for him. He’s joined by a gaggle of old folk who regale me with their ills, their aches, pains and toilet habits so I put away the laptop and play nurse.
Of course I need to shop for dinner and as we’re on a diet its fish and salad again. I like fish but I really need to learn how to cook up another dish that doesn’t say fat twat to me.
So I’m home, walk the dogs, because they’re so excited to see me. I mean I was gone no longer than three hours, but you can’t trust the buggers not to foul the flat. So me and the hounds do the park and I take a can with me and get talking to a couple of other walkers who too enjoy a beer with their dogs.
And you know it’s getting late and I’ve got to cook. I share my life with a princess. Like all Princess’s she don’t cook, well can’t cook, don’t clean or shop, and suffers an array of mental trauma’s, but has an appetite that must be sated at 6pm or there are tears.
Now I’ve been up close on 14 hours and admittedly am getting tired, but I have a mantra all day everyday I Must Write. So I sit down to my story and wonder where the hell the day went.