It is that time of year where I usually feel like I am being sucked down a giant wind tunnel that I don’t want to go down, but have no way of resisting – the force being such that I am powerless against the suction. Yes, obviously I am speaking of the downward slide towards Christmas. I’d go down the slide with a jolly ‘wheeee’ if I was better PREPARED; or if I was better re-paired. I am, you see, in a general state of disrepair which is reflected in my surroundings. I woke up this morning to find that I have become a symbolic representation of my life at the moment: my hair in and face in the mirror were both shocked and surprised to see me (both those elements and words are interchangeable). I don’t know who was more horrified when I went to the kitchen to make coffee, me or the floor that stared up at me accusingly, its grubby surfaces glaring at me like a defiant toddler with a recently smacked bottom. I ignored the fact that the baby was sleeping past his wake time as dictated by the baby sleep guru lady that everyone follows – this is another tunnel I am flailing around in – because it would give me more time to send off some more book orders, bash out a few e mails and pump the breast milk for freelancer husband to give to baba later because I was going to the British Library to conduct the very important business of writing my second book. The post lady came and shoved loads of beautiful Christmas cards through the post flap from fragrant ladies – some with children and jobs even – who managed to manage their homes and put me in a post flap because they manage to send Christmas cards too! I don’t know how these women have the time to write Christmas cards. Having it all? I’m having it small - which means no Christmas cards, ordering gifts online, and rebelling against seeing too many people. It’s the only way I can do it, unless I can have a small genie too.
