Catdancer

I have been asked to do a publicty tour - of a kind - to rouse interest in my latest book.  It's a picture book and the artitst is wonderful!  I stuck  to my original brief, which was to make the story as factual as possible, but the commissioning editor was new to the post, and wanted,I think, to make a good impression with her first book. It went through nine re-writes and from fact to fantasy - and then back to my original version; to my great relief. I was beginning to think that I'd lost my touch. But I really must practise my walking - the customers of W,H.Smith wouldn't be impressed by an author who gives the impression of a drunken duchess.
My cat sits sulking on the wall - all is as usual

"Dogs believe they are human. Cats believe they are God."
- Unknown
I love the above quote- whoever wrote it certainly knew cats. Mine sits on the wall, waiting for breakfast & occasionally throwing me a withering look.  I send one back but I'm not sure she receives it; if she does, she ignores it. 
It's seven-thirty on a bright sunny morning and after a few hectic days I've decided that this will be a day of play.  Having made this resolution I immediately think of at least six things I must do.  Books lie around, wating to be culled for the charity shop, clothes lie around waiting to be taken upstairs - the latter not a big job but as my balance is still not right I cling to two bannister railings when mounting the stairs, & in the case of taking clothes back in bulk, drag a  full plastic bin liner behind me.
A nautical friend devised a method of taking a full bag upstairs by a complicated method that invovled a washing line - it was brilliant; one stood on the landing and just hauled away - singing the ocassional shanty.   Unfortunetely, he left in a huff and took his nautical line with him.  I have never been able to remember how it was done. Ah, me. . .

Being offline is a little like being cast on a desert island; I told myself that there was lots to do, like finishing a story - but I still felt bereft.  Now I have begun another tale and feel  a bit guilty about it.  It's the first time I've ever based a story on something even remotely connected to what has happened personally and find that I am really enjoying writing it.  Well, I love writing anyway but this is something extra.  Revenge?  I have a sneaking suspicion that it might be, and revenge is something we are not supposed to seek, are we? 

I took my new small laptop to bed, along with my morning coffee.  It, the laptop, immediately said that its battery was dangerously low.  I brought its cable up and connected it to the mains, whereupon it hid every icon and subtituted an hour glass.  I waited patiently, I read a little, I sorted out some more things for the charity shop - the hour glass icon persisted.  I brought everything down, replugged, & at once it showed me everything it could do.  I no longer care. Even the flip-round screen that allows one to write notes with a special pen then turn them into a computer file if one wishes can't invite my enthusiasm at the moment.
It's warm & will become wqarmer, so my forecast says.  My cat sits on the wall, waiting for breaakfast.  I drink more coffee

Tired of smiling  to make myself and others feel better I decided to be bitchy, which led my thoughts to Eartha Kitt's wonderful song 'I want to be evil, I want to spit tacks.'  Just thinking about it made me feel better, and full of smiles. See?

But it also made me recall 'Archie & Mehitabel.'  How could I have forgotten that,Archie the cockroach, who uses his bosses typewriter at night {all but the punctuation keys, which he can't manage, and Mehitabel, the stray alley cat, played on stage by Eartha Kitt.  Mehitabel's motto was mine - and still is.
'It's cheerio my deario what sees a lady through!'

Just out of curiousity I registered with a website devoted to those us us who needed a little help - stroke victims, MS & the like.  The stories were horrific.  And the writers were often so brave, making light of the most horrendous tales.  They made my story seem like child's play - so what if I now have only two styles of walking  - A duchess who's been too much to the gin bottle {that is, upright & very regal, but only to keep myself from falling over} & a mad Balinese type, with wild ,eccentric gestures.  Well, most of the inhabitants of the village think me mad anyway; for a start, I don't have a proper job - I write & that's not like going out to work everyday at 7 a.m & returning at 6 p.m. is it?  I've lost count of the people who've told me 'I intend to write a children's book one day, but I haven't time right now.' 
But my friend Anne, a writer like me, but of crime novels, tells me that some victims - & by that I mean anyone in a distressing situation - complain constantly about their lot & this is ultimately unattractive - sad but true.  Friends rally round but are driven away by the constant moans.  So I shall try to keep up my saintly forbearance & smile in the face of adversity.
Or is that going a bit too far?

Well, Jonathan Cainer, in whom I have a sceptical but deep-seated belief, says that my situation will only improve if I continue to be brave and control my own destiny.  This came as something as a suprise as I did not realize that I was being brave; I thought I'd been struggling along in my usual haphazard manner.  But according to Jonathan, no cavalry will ride to my rescue, nor will a shining knight appear by my side.  Well, at my age I'd not expected a knight - or the cavalry either.
Come to think of it, sceptical and deep-seated cancel each other out, don't they? - but at my age one can be irrational. . .unless of course the irrationality is thought to be the first intimations of Alzheimer's.
Oh, bugger - I think I might just swallow a mouse and have done with it