“I wish the time hadn’t gone so fast, though. And sometimes I wish I’d enjoyed it more on the way, and worried about it less.”
– Neil Gaiman –
I’ve managed to allocate enough time to write a short post today. Its been slipped in-between the continued production of “Plan C” and my daily dose of head-butting the wall. (Also known as writing a book.). Those of you that were unfortunate to receive copies of the first three chapters have my sincere apologies, the next three will more indicative of my writing style than the previous have been. If its not then you have permission to set rabid badgers on me until I do something about it. Call it a motivational mauling.
Presently I’m acting as my fathers chauffeur for the next couple of weeks due to a motorcycling accident which resulted in him having his knee pinned back together – again. Sixty year old grandfathers on motorbikes are not known for their impact rating. Originally I planned to visit for a fortnight while finishing the books first draft. In the absence of my usual bag of tricks to help me compose, a two week stay close to the coast would be an ideal remedy for any occasional writers block.
Instead I’m taking my father to see his elderly clients everyday for corn removal while I try not to mutter (too much) about how I am supposed to be writing. Not that he has appeared to be listening – I’ve just been informed that we have five visits to make tomorrow. That’s five hours of being unable to do anything productive even after I have carried all the equipment in. Bags, stools, towels, foot-spas, I swear he never bothers with any of it usually. Five long hours of not being able to take the notes from my Moleskines and transform them into something worth reading. Five boring hours of drinking endless cups of tea while octogenarians regale why they were not allowed to attend dances with American servicemen. Five hours of hoping that the wreak of a Volvo my dad owns fails to start the next morning.
Ultimately though its simply depressing, what with all those withered frames, hoary old tales, and the ubiquitous smell of urine constantly in your nose to serve as a reminder that time, for all of us, is short and at this rate I’ll be the one sat in an overstuffed armchair getting my feet cleaned up while wondering what the title of the book was that I wanted to write.