Picture of Patch - 22 July 2011
I should be writing the next novel (started, abandoned) or editing new novel (scared to read it again) but instead have vacuumed the whole house and mopped the kitchen floor and hung out washing; also have decided to try to get to grips with scanning documents and very much to my surprise I have had a small success! Hurrah. So here is a picture of Patch, taken by my husband John about 4 years ago when he wasn’t quite as grey as he is now (Patch, I mean, not John, although it does apply to him, too) although he still has the same glint in his eye (ditto). Patch is the reason I have to vacuum the house as (fairly) often as I do. When I am writing good and proper clumps of his white hair build up in corners and drift across the floors like tumbleweed and then I am ashamed, as a good housewife ought to be.
Anyways, on Radio 4 yesterday someone was talking about Virginia Woolf as people on Radio 4 are wont to do, and I think the gist of it was that Woolf implied women who want to write need to close the door on housework and not worry about the dust – there are not enough hours in the day and it helps if you have a bit of money behind you and that you have a Room of One’s Own. I am paraphrasing now and because I was wiping peanut butter off the floor I may not have got that entirely correct as the rage against the peanut butter dropper was clanging about my head. The rage didn’t last long and then the news came on or I might have just changed the station to Magic 1170 in despair. Woolf said nothing about peanut butter and messy 23 year old sons, I’m sure.
Tomorrow I shall write. Ha! I’ve heard that before.