Hey all. I survived last week. I made sure little man had some idea, and then made sure his Dad and he were okay, and got on with it. That first morning I drove to work with no will or happiness at all. And of course, it was not as bad as I feared. But it was pretty bad. Grief, I’ve found, is a silent thing. I parked the car and sat in the darkness and wondered at life. Then I made myself get out, and go on, and just kept moving. His wonderful Dad left a voicemail message that reassured and comforted and it was okay. But this week is not easy. And I am still doing the Lotto.

I discovered this week the website www.archive.org. Turns out it can provide you with access to old websites. Some of you may remember the blog I had for years, www.wallpaper.blogs.ie, which simply got deleted without any warning, and with nothing recovered. So I went looking for it on this website.

The blog had become a real memory aide to me. I charted my mother’s illness, my wedding and everything else on it. And then, poof, it was gone. It used to get about 500 people per day reading it. Reading through the old posts that were captured by Archive was quite telling.

Firstly, I have it seems always been convinced of my idiocy. Utterly, without any real doubt, I’ve written myself off. Secondly, by christ sometimes I can write. There were turn of phrases there that were magnificent, almost masterly in their finesse. And I never saw it, or recongised it, I never gave myself the slightest credit for it.

But what stands out the most, as Alan Rickman said, is the pain, the sheer pain of it all. I watch myself walk towards loosing Mum with a shrill inflexibility that just gets worse and worse and the life that became a horror. I honestly don’t know how I did it, I still don’t. I would have said I am much too weak but it seems that I am not.

I’m 42 years old. It already feels like a long time.

Tomorrow morning, my little man will wake up and I won’t be there. I’ll be doing the last of my things to do before finishing up before Christmas and snatching him from the creche for two whole weeks with his Mum. He’ll be mine, and for two weeks I’ll have him to myself, no care staff, ta very much.

I’m astonished that it is the end of December, the end of the year. My performance at work, family and at writing sucked in comparison to other years. I’m tired, distracted and fighting fires rather than planning and achieveing. It seems to be a thing, everyone else seems to be behind on the presents and the to-do lists. Last Thursday saw me come in at 6.3oam not to write but just catch up on the most basic stuff. I’m slow as an earthworm these days and I know it.

Can you consider this your Christmas card, by the way, while we’re at it? Please consider this the complements of the season. May you eat until you’re stuffed and then some.

Merry Christmas, y’all

Last weekend was mad, and I’m not sure how much time I have to type this one out too. So anyway, quickly; I’ve reached 45,000 words, hurrah. Childe is good, hubby is good. Isn’t this weather awful?

I’ve a manic week ahead. I have not one but three main events happening this week, the last one starting Friday at 5pm. So busy, stressful, and lots of it this week. The house is messy, and I have no decorations taken down, no presents bought and my 1950s dress with the pearls has still not arrived.

None of this is real.

So this week, writing between 6.30am onwards is the easy part.

There’s the doorbell. Talk to you all next week.

Bank holidays mean there are no work. So my work began on Tuesday, after not three, but four blissful days with the other half and little man. I’m in luxury when I can spent four days with them, which at times can seem a little unfair. Anyways.

Tuesday, I get up, I get myself out the door as usual, I pull into the car park at 6.30 am. And that is when I realise I have left the keys to the office in my other coat. The keys that will let me get into the building and which otherwise won’t be open to me for at least another hour. Back at home, in the hall.

Idiocy. It’s rare, but it’s real, people.

So what do I do? Sit in the car and think?? Well nuts to that! Back in the car, drive home, pick up the keys, back in the car, and back into work. I make it to my desk at .650 am and turn the computer on. I turn the coffee up to Sqqqqueeeeee! And I get going. And what I wrote was an interesting little cul de sac for one of my characters about a sad little moment that I have always wondered about and am now able to write out and use, no, exploit, for my own uses.

By 8.00 am I had two thousand words down, in an interesting counterpoint to the movement of the novel so far. Managed to make it in on Thursday without clapping my hands together like a seal, and got the word count up to 26,000 or so.

All we need now is for the coffee be emptied over the machine or for the computer to blow up or for a bloody comet to hit the office and it will be the icing on the cake.

“Weeeeeeeee!”

Have a good one, lads.