The Mothership called and asked me to take down the photos of her old school. I was sad, because I worked hard on that page and the captions were funny. But you type the name of the school into Google you got this site. So that’s bad.
She also read some of the blog. “What’s New Pussycat, eh? What’s all that about?”
“Do you really think you should talk about your neighbours like that? What if they find out?”
“I don’t bloody give an address!”
It’s funny how she chose to complain about that and not the fifty million things I’ve written about her. What can I say, she’s a character. I think she enjoys being a character. I told her once that if I wrote a book she’d be a character. She got all excited. “Me? A character! Am I character?” Much giggling. Yes, you’re a character.
Mum, if you’re reading this again, please… don’t. It’s just too weird. Toddle off and watch an episode of Touched By An Angel or something. You know I love you, but please. Bugger off 🙂
In other news, my “novel” is a sprawling mess. It’s funny how some characters are a breeze, you can imagine them up so easily. Then some you just can’t get to know at all. Like the Lurve Interest, I know nothing about him at all, except that he’s got brown eyes and a Magic Tongue.
What about his personality? What floats his boat? What music is he into? Is he funny or serious or a complete bastard? Does he speak in eloquent thoughtful sentences or is he one of those one word at a time grunty types? Does he have good hygiene?
It all boils down to the fact that I just bloody forget what men are like. The dialogue I’m writing sounds so false and stilted. No matter how many times I write and re-write it doesn’t sound authentic. I forget what you say and how you act and what the stupid things you do that make me want to love and punch you in the nose all at the same time. I forget how it goes.
Very sad and pathetic. The nunnery is calling me.
Here are some things I like. The summery smell of cucumber and watermelon. My flatmate poking and tickling me when we’re watching TV. My shoes. When you wash the sheets and when you reach up to peg them on the clothesline, you can feel the wet cotton against your skin and it’s all cool like slipping into a swimming pool.
Here are some things I don’t like. Scooping Harry poop from the back lawn. Misuse of apostrophe’s. Abrupt emails. Abrupt phone calls. Abrupt goodbyes. Abrupt anything, really. And let me reiterate that the poop scooping really sucks.
This blog thing is getting harder every day, or rather every time I find out someone I know is reading this. It’s getting harder to say how I really feel so I will have to start writing obscure, wanky paragraphs and make you read between the lines.
Hey Mum, I told you to stop reading!