In which our reluctant hero is lost for words. Or something.
- Add new material to or regularly update a blog.
- Procrastinate, overthink, panic, scribble, over edit, scrape self-imposed deadline, post it, hate it, correct typos, think it’s OK, forget all about it, repeat.
As usual, I’ve been putting writing this week’s post off until the last possible moment. This is not due to any particular will not to do it, more a feeling of there being nothing left for me to say. Let me explain.
The kids are in an almost perpetual weekday routine of breakfast, rehearsing their school nativity, cheese sandwich/school dinners, home, tea, not wanting to clean teeth, not wanting to go to bed, and not wanting dad to do teeth, bedtime or stories.
If you swap “nativity” for “harvest festival” then the list pretty much sums up my last eighteen months of scribbling. I surely can’t get away with mentioning it all in a post again. Can I?
Routine, dull as it is, is a necessary evil needed to maintain order. If only someone could tell the bus drivers, then everyone could calm down again. Having randomly sent buses anything up to ten minutes earlier than the scheduled 6:45 departure for two weeks prior to the timetable change, every single bus has been late since timetable change. All of them. It’s annoying as it happens every single year, which, paradoxically, creates some sort of routine. Or something.
But I can’t write about travel either, can I? That would be as tedious as writing about the weather on the day when the snow kicked in. Yes, I know that it’s snowing. My curtains are special ones that can be opened, and the cat wasn’t white yesterday.
This week’s variation to Groundhog Day is pesky Ernie the Elf, who has been making shoe trains, getting stuck on balloons and up Christmas trees, spilling breakfast everywhere, having midnight tea parties and dying our milk blue. The kids have enjoyed the madness, but nobody wants to read anything else about elves in December. Especially if they’re on Elfbook, as it seems to have become.
Elfbook did give me one source of potential gold, but I could find no way to mine it without creating a bizarre rant about how our five-year-old is developmentally three years ahead of some of her peers. Which she probably is, as my children are always going to be better than yours. Nobody wants to read a load of proud parenting guff either. Next.
People don’t have children in December, it’s more a time for excessive alcohol and clumsy conceptions, so there’s been no children’s birthday parties to moan about again. Another staple source of inspiration lost. Stupid selfish parents.
Even the boy demolishing the best part of two advent calendars with his little friend was more funny than annoying. Any writing about that would probably end up with the hashtag “#blessed” so that’s out too.
It’s four o’clock on Friday. A mere two hours until the blog goes up. The clock is ticking and I have nothing. Not even a sentence. Gawd.
I recently read something about there being nothing left for children to dream up on their own anymore. Perhaps that’s the same for grown-ups too? Perhaps I’ve hit middle age and have already thought every original thought that I’m ever going to have. If so, what’s next?
One most genius strategy could be to simply repeat the same old rubbish time after time and hope that nobody notices. I reckon it could just work too. The centre of the universe is me after all. Well, maybe not me, but you. No, not you you. Everyone else. And the only guarantee in this age of narcissistic self-indulgence is that nobody ever pays attention or listens.
So for now, I’ll hit rewind. I may press play again next week. Who will ever know?