Going over the Baroque archives, it seems to me it's been a little while since I wrote very much about - you know - moi-même. Life in Baroque Mansions. The state of my innards. Les enfants, who are now much larger than their mother and also even more obnoxious. It seems to me that there was a picture, a moving picture if you like, a sort of word film, of our little ménage up here over the rooftops of N16, which has faded dramatically since the return to work, etc. All of a sudden I'm only writing about things like poetry, movies, culture - the things I said I was going to write about - and that can't be much fun for you...
To be honest, though, what with not being about to go blind (that I know of; I haven't written it off completely), not being about to have my guts burst open with pieces of rock flying out in all directions, not being dramatically rushed to Homerton Hospital to be force-fed unsuitable food and five different kinds of antibiotics, and even being over the three-month-long London Cold I suffered from for about - well, three months - the Baroque health has become a rather mediocre affair. I feel a bit tired, is all.
On the bright side, though, I've had the past two two days off in bed, queasy and dizzy (and Sleepy and Grumpy and Droopy and Snory and Peaky), which I wonder what that's about, but whatever it was it wasn't letting me stand up very much. I can't put all the blame on the cheesecake I ate last week - but it is true that I have been too readily reaching for the full-fat products, and my system just isn't coping with them the way it used to. But that's hardly exciting, is it. Let me refresh your attention around the fact that white wine makes an excellent olive oil substitute when cooking things like chicken and white fish.
However, I was severely let down even by my own gluttony, one night last week: just before bed I deliberately tempted fate by eating half an English muffin with toasted chèvre on it, and not one nightmare did I have. I could even say I slept like a lamb.
Anyway, les enfants are mainly residual chez ses père, so those kinds of amusing calamity are much rarer here than they used to be: the fights, the withering sarcasm, the loud music at 1am... The Baby Mummy, whose anti-domesticated antics were so rich and amusing last summer, has long since departed for Other Squats and her baby been scooped up by its grandmama (who is younger than me, but then you can technically be a grandma at 29 so that's not saying much). Briefly reminded of her lately when someone remarked about the acrylic paints on my pillowcases, I could only sigh a nostalgic sigh. Ah for those lost days! Even la petite Mlle B is big, glamorous and surly now, and I do count myself lucky she hasn't yet discovered the joys of paint.
In fact, readers, it has been borne in on me lately that what I am in is a Transitional Phase. No amount of sounding like a part of a sentence can make that any more fun. It means that the old life - upon which, let's face it, so many of the Baroque japes were founded - is now gone, gone with the wind, like the red earth of Tara, while the new one, upon which one hopes to base new japes, is not yet happening. But it will be a sort of middle-aged one, empty-nested and pre-menopausal no doubt, teaching one new kinds of humility and tolerance (stop it, there in the back!), with grown-up sorts of japes, like maybe boiler problems... unless one of my own kids decides to duplicate the Baby-mummy stunt, in which case we will be more like Rapunzel, with me as the wicked king. Will that be as entertaining to read about?
I only go on about this because people have told me they enjoyed reading about our little life, and I've noticed there's not so much of it to read about these days. Kids do grow. The Urban Warrior is less than a year younger than I was when I came to London and embarked on this whole affair, and he lives at his dad's, often with his girlfriend whom I haven't even given a name yet (I mean, she does have one, but it is a Real One, not a Baroque Mansions one), and I have no idea what their japes are, so there is scant material there. The Tall Blond Rock God has gone very quiet indeed; on a recent cinema trip he did tell me about an internet hoaxer called John Titor, who said he was a traveller from the year 2036 or something, but when I googled the fellow, not one of his predictions had come true - so that was a damp squib. Mlle B says she hates having her friends (aka "the girls", upon whom I did dote) sleep over here now, so I never see them any more either. It's all very boring, for which I apologise.
Of course there have been other things going on, as those of you who really know me will know, but not all of these are amusing. Some of them have been distinctly unamusing, such as the fallout from the death of the Baroque dad, various other bits, and the Family Fight to End All Family Fights, which happened on the Thursday before Christmas: that made the Mills-McCartney divorce look like a Von Trapp Family picnic, and has only just begun to settle down. And there's more! Life does go on, bless its little socks of poly-cotton, but it isn't all bloggable. Sometimes it is a terrible waste of one-liners, but that's just the way it is.
I've had a twitch in my right eye for the past week. It started as a searing pain as I arrived at work one morning, like there was a monster's eyelash caught in there, but nothing was ever found - perhaps it was Nessie's eyelash - and then it dwindled to this twitch. A sure sign that I'm tired. And boring.
I haven't even seen my best friend, the high-powered Ms Rational Self-Determinism, since well before Christmas, she has become so high-powered - indeed, horse-powered - she's bought a car, and a cottage in the country, and another dog, and I think a small snake, and all manner of things that Ms B can never, ever hope to keep up with, unless I stop writing this blog and start writing some sort of chick-lit for grandmothers.
We really are reduced to the literary life.
Which reminds me, I have about five projects on the go, and haven't touched them all weekend or over these two sick days, I've been so out of it. In fact, I've largely been asleep. I've just made some coffee - at this hour! - just to try and wake myself up for the evening, so I can go back to work tomorrow, so I may as well try and do a little something, n'est-ce pas? Maybe work on my Secret Essay, which has been percolating in the background.
And you know what, I did write a poem the other day that I like - I like it quite a bit, I think - so I'm feeling pretty good about that. I was working on it while I was having Chapter Twelve of the FFEAFFs on the phone with the Urban Warrior, which I know would not impress him, but rather pleased me. And there was a depressing one last month about a cuckoo clock, and one about some plastic horses. I can't remember the last time I sent any poems out, I should get on it.
But it is nearly spring - the sunsets are getting nice again over our balcony, and I had the door open the other day. And the book will be coming outm, and there will be some sort of party, and before that there will be other people's book and parties, and in short it's not as if there's nothing to do.
And after all that, as it happens, Mlle B is on her way over for the next two evenings, so there will be rice cooked and Famous Pork Chops reheated (the ones that made me feel so utterly sick yesterday, but they're fine, it was me - & I'm not going to eat) and laundry to do and the bath to fight over and the breadcrumbs to sweep up, unless I can avoid it. You see we're still a hub!
