Christmas, I salute you.
It’s practically mandatory to sit down all day, watch old black and white films, gorge on chocolate and generally do not very much at all.
I love it.
Sadly though, I also have a short story (experimental and transgressive, gah) and a critical reflection piece to write.
Looking on the bright side however, it just means I get to sit down some more, only this time at my desk (after shoving the cat off the chair). Plus adequate supplies of chocolate and an old film playing in the background, the tv turned towards me.
Or that was the plan.
The Teenager has taken to his phone to communicate with me by text throughout the festivities and subsequent academic struggles:
‘I’m awake!!!’
‘Lovely dear. It’s 2pm’.
‘Mum?’
‘What?’
(Teenager sends through five screen shots of tops he wants to buy with his Christmas money)
‘Preference?’
‘I’m trying to write an essay’.
‘I like the red one. You?’
‘Very nice’.
‘Mum! What’s the best one? Is there toast in the house?’
‘The red one is nice. There’s bread in the freezer’.
‘Muum, muuuum, wanna make me toast? Because you wuv me? With honey? Jam if it’s easier?’
And so on and so on.
I’ve looked at all the study guides, and they recommend taking breaks after twenty or thirty minutes. So every half hour I sort out the laundry, organise the shopping list, vacuum, feed and play with the cat (I stupidly bought her a laser toy), dust, catch up on paperwork and sort out the recycling. Then I get back to the essay.
I suddenly have a wonderful idea, linking a little-known theory to my essay. I jot down notes, feel inspired, hover over the keyboard …’
A text.
I can’t help it. I look.
‘Have you seeeeen this?????’
(A short film or ‘gif’ of a rabbit doing a high-five, over and over again)
My wondrous literary thought (which could have changed the literary world) has disappeared, never to be retrieved. I save my paltry document and give in to the inevitable.
I resume my default On The Sofa position, controller handy, legs tucked up (MS nerve pain is a nightmare), bowl of chocolate within reach and a book at my side.
I scroll through my tv recordings. Ah. Aiden Turner, in an Agatha Christie locked-room mystery. Of course, I am compelled to watch it for, ahem, research. It’s based on a very, very famous novel.
I settle down.
Ping. Text.
‘Mum. Guess what?’