Holidays

You overwork something for too long and like The Little Donkey that wouldn’t go, it’s going to start to break. So we have holidays, a time to rejuvenate. Summer holidays are the gold standard of all holidays; often planned in the winter months they become the light at the end of the tunnel; the reward for our hard work, the treat for our children, the time to be a family again.

Summer holidays come laden with myth like memories; the long summer of Seventy Six when according to my romantic memory we spent days and days at Nash Point. Childhood holidays when we were bombing along the streets on our bikes and bursting through the lazy haze that rose from concrete pavements. Teenage holidays when we dressed from head to toe in black and walked the melting urban landscape in unsuitable footwear to sit in a friend’s bedsit and listen to something depressing on the record player.

Summer holidays, when your dad undertook a massive DIY project and your mother washed and ironed and cleaned for days on end, so that when the holidays came there was no washing and ironing to do (Ok we will talk about that later.)

Of course there are also far away holidays, holidays abroad, walking holidays, camping holidays. They are the summer holidays and I am on mine. Right now; this is day one.  

What shall I do with it?

Nash Point, my favorite place in all the world

Cleaning

Yes, I have a cleaning thing. When I stop. When I pause. Everything looks grubby. Sometimes I feel like I can’t operate effectively until every glass is gleaming and every surface is reflective.

Resting

I am hopeless at this. I cannot rest. Last night, as a warm up I tried to watch T.V. and ended up sorting socks. To be honest there was nothing on.

Holidaying abroad

I am the working poor. Nothing more to be said here.

Day Trips

This is a good idea. I have been on a few with my boy and we have gotten lost in the countryside several times. I feel we bonded. He feels mummy has no sense of direction and actually called for help, you know like the scarecrow does when Dorothy falls asleep in the poppies.

Writing stuff

Yes. I want to write stuff. I have several pieces to work on. One is about a dreamer who’s dreams spill out, one is about a child killer, one is about the broken half of a mirror and one is about an incompetent fairy god mother. And there are so many more. Yet it feels indulgent to write when the bathroom needs doing.

The Bathroom

All we need to do here is sand down, gloss and lay the floor. We have had a concrete bathroom floor for over a year. I should be ashamed of myself.

Getting over work and getting drunk.

I have reached such levels of perfection, that it would be a waste of a holiday to work this any further, I should like to drink white wine and listen to Sixto Rodriguez. Again and again.

I could manifest. It’s what sports persons do, a creative visualization, of me winning. So the plan is, to do ironing in the morning, then clean the windows and wash the curtains and finally sit down with the book, with the words and write them just as they should be laid down, as they come out of my finger tips.

In Preparation

I used to get ready for things. I used to get things ready, for example “Joanne is your homework ready for tomorrow?” Mum used to get things ready for us Dad used to get his things ready, his scarf and gloves would be laid on the radiator ready.

The best sort of ready would be getting ready to go out. This would involve a friend, loud music, fags, excessive makeup, the trying on of several outfits, some posing and great hilarity.

Until recently preparation was something you did to food and woodwork. Then people started using phrases like “Fail to Prepare: Prepare to Fail.” Kids started preparing for exams, job applicants for interviews and I found myself in a situation where I had to prepare for lessons. I couldn't even pretend to prepare because my preparation had to be documented in order that I prepare for observation.

I did once try and work on this surface!

At what stage do you actually move on from preparing, planning, getting ready and do the thing? What about the artists muse? Does anyone wake up from a dream, rush to the pen and paper and just write or do we now flick the switch on, boot the computer up and wait while windows prepare the desktop?

Many times I have been caught with an idea. I have allowed it to mature and evolve during my working day; I've caught the bus home with a fully formed idea ready to be spilled onto the page only to have every day preparation get in the way.

Maybe I’m not a real creative. An artist would be oblivious to the pile of the dishes or some dog piddle in the hallway. A writer would understand that everyone in the house hold knows how to make toast and not worry about dinner. They would just do it.

This weekend I was determined to work on my crafting; on flutterjos. So much so that I prepared and Friday nights kitchen was immaculate. Unfortunately the Saturday morning kitchen not so, and I was a little delayed. Never the less I managed to spend most of the day pattern cutting, colour choosing and embroidering.  

I wanted to do more on Sunday, but I needed to prepare for the coming week. As I’m not the only member in the house hold I made a list of chores for all three of us and then set about getting them completed as quickly as possible. I’m not going to bore you with the woes of ironing, washing, hovering and floor cleaning,  but by eight O’clock Sunday evening when I finally sat down with my sewing paraphernalia I was physically shaking. It took a glass of wine before I was calm enough to thread a needle.

So from now on I am going to try and go with my creative side, I’m going to focus on doing the thing rather than preparing to do the thing. I just hope I’m prepared for the challenge.

The Cleaning Ritual

Last week I gave myself permission to be unbearably positive. I also set myself some demanding targets; I was to write at least one short story, one poem, one blog and finish a chapter. I wrote three short stories, one poem and one blog. I didn't finish the chapter because it’s Chapter Nine that needs finishing. Besides I need to read back through everything first. I need to be in the right frame of mind for Chapter Nine.

Let’s set a new target right now then: Chapter Nine by Monday 6^th April. The problem with these targets and this level of positivity is that I do not have a place or even a room of my own. I like most other writers do not have the luxury (if you can call it that) of just writing all day long.

I have a job, a family, two dogs and the cleaning itch. It’s spring that brings it on. A little bit of sunshine and all the dust, smudges, kitchen grease and general human mank need cleaning away. Why? Because it’s symbolic, wiping away the deadness of the winter months and bringing the freshness of the spring into the home. Quite how this involves cleaning behind and underneath both the fridge and the cooker is beyond me. I don’t feel I was procrastinating, maybe every piece of glass in the kitchen did need washing in soap and vinegar, and buffing with a soft cloth so that each time you open the cupboard your hit with the kind of sparkle you get in a jewelers.

There is something restfully rhythmic in the cleaning ritual. When my hands are cleaning, washing, scrubbing, polishing and buffing my mind is resting. I know it sounds bonkers, but at the right time the cleaning ritual is mentally resting, refreshing and meditative. I bit like weaving. I bit like crafting.

I had this target (another one) I was going to do the kitchen over the weekend; ready for Easter. Once the kitchen was done I would be able to do the eggs. I've seen them on Pinterest, someone has used dollies as stencils. As all my crockery is blue and white, mostly willow pattern, I intend to do the eggs in willow blue and white. I have given myself some interesting headaches as a result of blowing the eggs and we have been eating a lot of egg based food stuffs because I want a pretty Easter tree.

Because I want it to be nice. But, I've a sort of stress head-ache, there is a pain in the back of my neck and across my shoulders. (I got a poem out of it!) .

I have these expectations, an expectation that come Easter Day there will be a beautifully laid out table and we will all remember it with delight. If I’m not careful I’m going to be disappointed. If I’m not careful I’m going to be so knackered that I won’t be able to manage a mini egg.

Perhaps I ought to defer the targets; after all I am supposed to be on holiday.