I
recall a quote from Girl: ‘having my child is like having a liquidiser, only
I don’t have a lid for it:’ I am following a trail of cat litter, shampoo and odd shoes to
where Baby is feeding Dog an envelope.
Baby
gets all her work done, but mine gets neglected today.
When
Baby is gone, I’m tired, I register fully how tired I am, but it’s not the
liquidiser effect, it’s really the coffee I drink too late at night and my
brain bounces in my skull and wakes me up well before the alarm.
I
have three optimum writing times and late is one of them, the only one today I
will be taking advantage of.
I
love the cloistered dark; a throw back to the intrigue of impressionable youth,
to the image of The Poet: the cold, hungry soul alone in a garret, nourished
only by words, inking intensity by the flicker of a goose-fat candle.
Poor
Poet, too romantic to sustain a life; the blood flecks of tuberculosis have
ruined your cravat. I can poke fun at the appeal, you see, just not quite let
it go.
But
if I don’t stop drinking coffee at midnight, a classic spiral descent is
waiting.
An
interim glass of wine tonight; rose petal tea tomorrow. Not unromantic, not
unsustainable. I can put a lid on myself.
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