My so called life

It being Saturday means that The Girl has to be escorted to yet another of her f***king parties (that child has a better social life than Paris Hilton) and The Boy is planning to go to Kingston to "buy some doughnuts". And speaking of better social lives, I had a phone call from a neighbour telling me that "Charlie and Lola visit quite a lot and Lola left her collar behind". Lola is my recently spayed and sulky cat. I went round to see my neighbour. "Oh yes" he said - "Charlie and Lola pop in quite a lot. Lola grabs some biscuits, hisses at Charlie and rushes out, and Charlie just sits in a patch of sunlight. They're quite friendly with our two." These are cats we're talking about. I also learned that Lola has been "waggling her arse at the male cats". The little slapper. We clearly got her spayed just in time. I also discovered that the black and white one who I named Mrs Robinson on account of her advanced years and the fact that our male cat Charlie seems to quite fancy her, is in fact a male cat called Freddie. Shows you how much I know about cats. Come to think of it, does this mean that Charlie is a metrosexual cat? Gay? Or just deeply dim? I fear it is the latter. Whenever I put him out of the kitchen to stop him eating Lola's food as well as his own, he just sits, staring in the wrong direction, for a minute before realising he is no longer in the kitchen.

The Husband and I have no social life at the moment but our children and pets obviously do so that's all right. Oh and five minutes ago I asked The Boy to help me with some housework. "I just flushed the toilet!" he shouted with the wounded air of one who had just vacuumed the house from top to bottom.

I love having written. I hate fucking writing

Says writer Tony Jordan (Eastenders, Life on Mars) and I know exactly what he means. It’s different depending on the kind of writing. Been doing a lot of marking recently. I like coming up with a pertinent, helpful phrase that sheds light, or discovering a kind way of explaining why something doesn’t work, without really hurting the writer. I have to write at least a page where I engage with my students and make constructive remarks that help them to get better. So it’s useful and sometimes my students say that an idea has been triggered after something I suggested. I used to secretly worry that the more time I spent marking and teaching, the more resentful I might feel that ‘creative’ time (better known as surfing and staring out the window drinking tea) was being eaten away. I’ve learned, however, that teaching creative writing does feed into my own work. Not in a wafty romantic way, more that I'll read something I've written and mentally scribble: Could Do Better. Where's the structure? Where's the arc of the story? Go to the back of the class you useless twat. So yes the teaching is very constructive.


There’s an interesting piece in the Guardian where several writers discuss whether writing is a joy or a chore. I find it comforting that opinions vary wildly. Sometimes writing is like wading through concrete, or just boring. Other times though are magic; your brain flies open, you are unaware of hunger, thirst, or your chronically bad posture, your children’s huffy reminders that it’s Dinner Time are ignored. It’s just you in wondrous rapture as your fingers, brain and words fly along in perfect synchronicity. I think they call it being in The Zone. It doesn’t happen very often, or not with me, but when it does, it makes it all worth it.

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Lola, the Spayed Cat, has finally forgiven me for inflicting a shaved patch on her flank, and after two days of feline sulking and grossly overpriced gourmet cat food, she is snoozing in my in-tray. I daren't move her. The mortgage application will have to wait.

. . . And now my other cat hates me!

NaBrought Lola to the vet this morning. She wasn't best pleased and did the cat equivalent of a "Fuck You" by turning her back on me and letting out a really nasty fart (all the more amazing as she hadn't been allowed to eat since 8pm the previous night). I left her in the kind hands of the vet, and phoned later to be told that all had gone well, Lola was spayed, stitched and fed and could I pick her up? Home we went, opened the basket and Lola promptly shot out and hurled herself through the cat flap. For the rest of the day she has been sitting on the fence, with an evil look in her eye.

Ten minutes ago she suddenly went nuts and raced round the house, then bolted out the cat door again, but not before giving me the kind of look that a patriotic Frenchman would give a Nazi. I've heard that anaesthetic can send animals a bit nuts. Is this true or is she going to hate me forever? And she's supposed to be kept in tonight but she refused to come anywhere near me. Oh dear. Suddenly, multiple pregnancies, sluttish cat behaviour, unwanted kittens, and even shaggging her brother doesn't seem such a big deal right now . . .