The open double shit sandwich of the new school term
I've never looked forward to a Wednesday as much as I did this week. Wednesday was when the mini-RMs went back to school, and between the hours of 8.30am and 3.30pm give or take, it was someone else's turn to deal with the noise that, despite combined very best efforts, has filled our house over the very (very) long weeks of summer.
The new term dawned like a open double shit sandwich announcing the demise of the summer season. That's a hybrid on steroids of the normal shit sandwich by the way, what HR departments the world over train their managers to deliver ("I like your tie; you're not good enough to be here; I like the font on your email"), but with only a single layer of positivity - it's raining, the kids can't go outside to burn off the energy that is making the very foundations shake with their screaming, shouting and fighting; Yay! they're back at school; it's raining which is going to make the school run fun and I'm stuck indoors too now I've got some semblance of freedom back. Oh well, best get on with the repairs/washing/ironing/cooking/cleaning/daytime TV backlog I've neglected since July.
As I work from home, the summer has been particularly challenging - I like silence when I work, particularly because then I can hear my noisy keyboard which, added to my cats-eye tortoiseshell glasses and oak desk make me feel like I'm a pioneering and elegant 1940s/50s era female writer working at her typewriter. So I temporarily employed noise-cancelling headphones to cocoon myself in my creativity and relied on the sensitivity of my fingertips to experience the resistance of my QWERTY. When that didn't work to complete satisfaction, I reverted to writing in the witching hours, spookily good stuff too.
But now, I'm positively spoilt! I have my late and early hours and a long stretch of the day in which to craft my copy. Wednesday was the first day of my new term too.
Returning home to an empty house, I switched on my laptop. I filled the kettle and dropped an Earl Grey teabag into my favourite mug (I have two work mugs - legends read "Mrs Billie-Joe Armstrong" and "I am silently correcting your grammar" which makes me smile but annoys me with its split infinitive).
And then I made the most of my first morning of concentrated content creation. I scrolled to Spotify, the contemporary cousin of the mix tape (without the track crashes by commercial DJs to ensure the songs couldn't be reproduced - retro piracy for you young 'uns - and a dolphins' argument of clicks and crashes from the two hours you spent hovering over the pause button of your tape recorder as you taped that week's chart show and simultaneously tried to write a track list and work out the lyrics of the songs). And I hit play.
For the next hour I sang, screamed and sobbed to the seminal songs of my life, the songs that simultaneously calm me down, fire me up and spur me on. God's Greatest Rock Band first, without the need to sing over some of the greatest lyrics of all time with mummy-versions that always come out in a frightfully middle class accent. Minority no longer had "free for all, fun for all", and when I Let myself Go, they weren't stepping in spit anymore, and I no longer gave a flip. My Loss of Control wasn't caused by flipping useless enemies and the world still owes this Grouch, so fuck you.
Then the big one - I hit shuffle. Straight back to school sixth form with James' Sit Down (the boarders were mad for it before that was even a thing); driving to and from seeing friends in Herne Bay to The Jam's Bitterest Pill and Bo Rap; nights spent listening to Nirvana, passing my driving test and the freedom of my navy mini Sebastian (after Sebastian Bach of Skid Row). Gary Moore's Still Got the Blues, Alannah Myles Black Velvet (the whole album was good actually) and REM's Radio Song. A little bit of GaGa - less Speechless, more screech-less (not a word, but I like the way it sounds) and even some tunes from the girls' eclectic playlist, the dirty little secrets I have but will never admit to.
And with the floor clear of detritus and no little people to laugh at me, I danced. Stray Heart was a quick step (taking to the dance floor with my partner, Aljaz Skorjanez), NIN Closer was a Paso Doble (probably Aljaz again for this), and I was Lady GaGa on the Edge of Glory (probably watched by Aljaz who couldn't believe how good I was and didn't notice I hurt my back pulling off one particular move).
Then I sat down and started writing. Peace and prose. Perfect.
So if your kids have gone back to school, and you get a moment alone, I recommend putting on favourite tunes, and singing and dancing like the amazing and embarrassing mum or dad you are.
What they don't see, they can't tell anyone about. Have a great term.
The new term dawned like a open double shit sandwich announcing the demise of the summer season. That's a hybrid on steroids of the normal shit sandwich by the way, what HR departments the world over train their managers to deliver ("I like your tie; you're not good enough to be here; I like the font on your email"), but with only a single layer of positivity - it's raining, the kids can't go outside to burn off the energy that is making the very foundations shake with their screaming, shouting and fighting; Yay! they're back at school; it's raining which is going to make the school run fun and I'm stuck indoors too now I've got some semblance of freedom back. Oh well, best get on with the repairs/washing/ironing/cooking/cleaning/daytime TV backlog I've neglected since July.
As I work from home, the summer has been particularly challenging - I like silence when I work, particularly because then I can hear my noisy keyboard which, added to my cats-eye tortoiseshell glasses and oak desk make me feel like I'm a pioneering and elegant 1940s/50s era female writer working at her typewriter. So I temporarily employed noise-cancelling headphones to cocoon myself in my creativity and relied on the sensitivity of my fingertips to experience the resistance of my QWERTY. When that didn't work to complete satisfaction, I reverted to writing in the witching hours, spookily good stuff too.
But now, I'm positively spoilt! I have my late and early hours and a long stretch of the day in which to craft my copy. Wednesday was the first day of my new term too.
Returning home to an empty house, I switched on my laptop. I filled the kettle and dropped an Earl Grey teabag into my favourite mug (I have two work mugs - legends read "Mrs Billie-Joe Armstrong" and "I am silently correcting your grammar" which makes me smile but annoys me with its split infinitive).
And then I made the most of my first morning of concentrated content creation. I scrolled to Spotify, the contemporary cousin of the mix tape (without the track crashes by commercial DJs to ensure the songs couldn't be reproduced - retro piracy for you young 'uns - and a dolphins' argument of clicks and crashes from the two hours you spent hovering over the pause button of your tape recorder as you taped that week's chart show and simultaneously tried to write a track list and work out the lyrics of the songs). And I hit play.
For the next hour I sang, screamed and sobbed to the seminal songs of my life, the songs that simultaneously calm me down, fire me up and spur me on. God's Greatest Rock Band first, without the need to sing over some of the greatest lyrics of all time with mummy-versions that always come out in a frightfully middle class accent. Minority no longer had "free for all, fun for all", and when I Let myself Go, they weren't stepping in spit anymore, and I no longer gave a flip. My Loss of Control wasn't caused by flipping useless enemies and the world still owes this Grouch, so fuck you.
Then the big one - I hit shuffle. Straight back to school sixth form with James' Sit Down (the boarders were mad for it before that was even a thing); driving to and from seeing friends in Herne Bay to The Jam's Bitterest Pill and Bo Rap; nights spent listening to Nirvana, passing my driving test and the freedom of my navy mini Sebastian (after Sebastian Bach of Skid Row). Gary Moore's Still Got the Blues, Alannah Myles Black Velvet (the whole album was good actually) and REM's Radio Song. A little bit of GaGa - less Speechless, more screech-less (not a word, but I like the way it sounds) and even some tunes from the girls' eclectic playlist, the dirty little secrets I have but will never admit to.
And with the floor clear of detritus and no little people to laugh at me, I danced. Stray Heart was a quick step (taking to the dance floor with my partner, Aljaz Skorjanez), NIN Closer was a Paso Doble (probably Aljaz again for this), and I was Lady GaGa on the Edge of Glory (probably watched by Aljaz who couldn't believe how good I was and didn't notice I hurt my back pulling off one particular move).
Then I sat down and started writing. Peace and prose. Perfect.
So if your kids have gone back to school, and you get a moment alone, I recommend putting on favourite tunes, and singing and dancing like the amazing and embarrassing mum or dad you are.
What they don't see, they can't tell anyone about. Have a great term.
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Thanks for ranting!