6127/19057
Just when I thought I might get some work done (not really - still walking around feeling like I’m living in a fish tank that hasn’t been cleaned for four months) it’s one of those news days where you have no choice but to glue yourself to your computer and make smart ass comments on Twitter. Sound problems, spider broaches and the Prime Minister getting his arse spanked by a brilliant girly swot. The withering line about them having basically presented a piece of blank paper to parliament was genius.
Ultimately it may all play into Joris Bonson’s hands as he can work up the “us” versus “them” narrative that only an Etonian could get away with and I think the electorate will probably deliver him a big majority at the next election, depending on how long everyone else can manage to postpone that. It’s fascinating and terrifying and funny and I wonder what the fuck is going to happen and who will be alive when we come out the other side of this. Bonson will have the last laugh, I am sure. Though maybe the very last laugh will come from whoever overthrows his reign of terror and strings him up from a lamp post.
Sadly democracy is useless in the face of politicians that have no shame. Turns out you can pretty much just ignore all the rules if you want and there are no repercussions. Even this time I think Bonson has just hit a bump in the road.
I made the mistake of agreeing to do the school run on bin day when it was pissing down. The high streets of my village and the village where Phoebe goes to school were blocked by rubbish trucks and I had to park up far away and then dash through the rain in my jacket, which I was reminded too late, looks waterproof but really isn’t. At pick up another hold up on our High Street meant I had to take the long way round as Ernie cried in the back of the car. I’d thought I could do the pick up without using the pram and so had to drag and carry and cajole him into the school and back again. By tea-time I was ready to murder the family, fake my own death and start a new life, but luckily Catie took over and my kids survived to live another day.
The enthusiasm of a two year old is a wonderful thing. Unless you actually have to try and coral it. Man, I love these kids, but there’s no need for them to take the piss like this.
It feels like the creative juices of writing only start flowing when the task seems hopeless. I have pretty much always managed to turn it around every other time, but the Breeders fiasco early this year may have taken the wind out of my sails. Maybe it’s getting to the point where I can only do one thing at any given time. I think the rigours of doing three podcasts in eight days, the subsequent late nights and no time to recuperate are probably more responsible for my exhaustion than the kids.
Like the news, it’s impossible to work out how all this will end, but oh the fun of anticipation.
