Wednesday, 16 November 2011

The peculiarity of thwarting, by the woman with a platypus on her head

There have been some bizarre happenings in my household today – or should I say ‘flathold,’ as we are certainly being held hostage here against our will, all five of us crammed into a two-bedroom flat, Mr Housing Minister, but therein lies another tale. This morning, my husband, who has recently gone freelance, and so now is able to ‘nip in and out,’ took the two-year-old to the workshop, before feeding the baby via express-o machine (milk from me, pumped double-quick with my new handheld breast pump that doubles up as one of those hand-bending-stress-reliever-thingies). The bottle feed meant my tiny was zonked out, the two-year-old was literally out and I was soon to behave outlandishly. I was alone. The house was quiet. It was spooky. Soon the first odd happening occurred: I blow-dried my hair. With two roundy brushes: One medium, one small. Prior to that I showered and nit-combed my hair - to the uninitiated (two ‘nits’ in that word) or those without kids/nit carriers, I was not behaving like a nit with a comb (though I’ll wager I looked like one as I yelped and yanked at my wet locks with a metal comb with three inch spikes), I was removing the last traces of actual live beings who took up residence in my hair and are now refusing to leave. I once squatted in my feral youth, so this is possibly payback. Anyhow, the other peculiar thing that happened this morning was this: When I came out of the shower, I washed all my hair brushes, including the two roundy ones, which I last used in 1997, before proceeding to the kitchen – where there is a plug socket that you can get to without training for the Olympics – where I began to dry my hair, experimenting briefly and entangledly, with the brushes. Why are these events bizarre? I never, ever blow dry my hair or wash hair brushes that I never use. I am never ever alone - certainly not without a little voice screaming or shouting or demanding (not just those inside my head). No, these events are bizarre because they never happen (apart, sadly, from the nit-combing) these strange events took place because of what I call, my ‘thwarting.’ Now that I have written one novel, had the book launched and waved it off, I am coming up with all sorts of whacky practises to prevent myself from sitting down and redrafting my second novel. EVEN WHEN I HAVE THE OPPORTUNITY! Why am I still doing this? I’ll try to answer that question next time. BTW, because I got bored halfway through blow drying, my hair looks flicky on the one side and like I have a platypus residing on it on the other – his bill slapped across my cheek.

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