I’ve been getting a bit of ‘heat’ from Friend-Matt.
Friend-Matt lives in Manila where he works for a company that do something or other that requires the ex-pat presence of a significant number of Brits.
He tells me that I am developing quite a following amongst his ex-pat community and that I should stop being such a slacker, start writing more consistently and keep in mind, not to sound too ‘mafia-tastic’ about it, that people who are living in self-imposed exile from their homeland, enjoy reading about ‘back home’.
In my defence, it is the summer holidays.
My kids are not at school.
They’re at home.
They show no inclination, whatsoever, to take Timmy-The-Dog, pack up some anchovies, ginger beer and a tent and fuck clear off to Famous-Five-Island, where they can spend the summer sleeping on beds made of heather and befriending kindly gypos.
Not once have they asked if we own a compass and on the one occasion, since the summer term ended, that I was actually sober long enough to find the only remaining pen that Annabelle hasn’t already lost, I even tried to draw a treasure map that detailed the hiding place of a bumper pack of Haribo that was secreted, by pirates hundreds of years ago on the Cornish Coast; they just asked me if I’d ‘be a doll’ and pop out and get it for them.
Now you’d think that I’d enjoy the idea of spending six weeks complaining about my offspring but, since every other female writer in England is busily doing the same, I’m going to take a firm ‘what-she-said’ stance and move swiftly on.
Anyway, this gin-drip isn’t going to re-fill itself, so I’ll be off now.
Tomorrow’s diary entry: Mothers who turn their bedside table into a mini-bar.