Like much of the UK, we’ve woken up to white skies, white rooftops, white trees, white roads. Like probably half the UK, the smallest and I are too hot, too cold, nested in among tissues and blankets, Linctus and books. Muffled inside our own heads.
Probably shouldn’t be blogging. Don’t really know why I’m blogging.
The snow is lying so thickly and falling (still falling!) so beautifully and that is such a novelty here. Heart-lifting, dizzying. We love it, we want to be out in it – but we’re sick (the cat, meanwhile watches at the window, with flattened ears and risen hackles; he’s disgusted - wants the flutter of real feathers, not this).
My mind is whirling quietly too. There is so much to think about right now.
There are the happy, interesting book things coming up – the p/b launch this week of Caroline Smailes’ fabulous ‘Black Boxes’. And at some point too, I’m interviewing Catherine Eisner about her intriguing ‘Sister Morphine’ for Salt’s Cyclone tour.
And there is my own writing - I’m in the final third of novel 3, preoccupied by ideas of motherhood and loss and gleaming water, and all the different ways there are of being haunted . . .
Then there are the big issues, the possibly life-changing ones - jobs, home, children.
Spinning thoughts like TV static. Exciting, frightening. Yet somehow so absorbing I almost feel detached, disassociated. It doesn't quite make sense, not yet, I know.
But bugger it. Later on, I think, my smallest and I will bundle up despite our colds. We’ll go outside and play.