You know those interviews with authors they put in the back of the Sunday supplements? The ones where they share the content of their fridges, or what they last bought on their credit card, or what their writing day is like? Either they’re all lying, or I’m doing something badly wrong.
This is how my day went today:
7am
I got up, and had several discussions with the builder about paint, shelf heights, and whether he’d like another cup of tea (he did), whilst trying to prise three half-term-hungover children out of bed and find something for breakfast that wasn’t covered in a thin film of plaster dust.
8am
Washed up. The dishwasher is out of action, thanks to the building work. Put a load of washing on.
8.30am
Did the school run. Popped into class three with the intention of saying, ‘I’m so sorry I can’t come and help this afternoon – I’ve got so much to do’. Was intercepted by the teacher saying, ‘you are coming today, aren’t you? I really need you,’ to which – of course – I said ‘yes, of course!’
9am
Walked the dog. In the rain. Came home, hung the washing out, put another load on. Made the builder a cup of tea.
10am – midday
Sat down at my desk with a plan of clearing my emails, then doing an hour’s writing. Only achieved one of those things, and it wasn’t writing my book.
Midday
Made half a fish pie. Ran out of time. Hung the washing out. Put another load on. Did the washing up. Made the builder a cup of tea.
1pm – 3pm
Helped in school.
3pm
Picked up the kids and brought them home to change. Made the builder a cup of tea. Took the kids to swimming lessons, where I discovered Georgie had no swimming costume. She did the lesson in a pair of boys’ trunks, and every parent there looked at me as though I was clinically insane.
5pm
Finished the fish pie. Washed up. Made the packed lunches. Bathed three children. Gave them supper. Put them to bed.
It’s now 8pm and I suppose I could start writing. But I am so tired that even lifting my fingers to type feels like a gargantuan task.
I suppose there’s always tomorrow…