The Mothership has been up, collecting children from school, putting them over their sums, browning pans of mince on the stove and boiling potatoes. She and my Dad come once a week and try to restore order to our home, where teetering piles of paperwork, clothes and what Marie Kondo refers to as ākimonoā and I call āshiteā, graces every worktop and flat surface. The tip, apparently, to a decluttered home, is keeping flat surfaces clear. I could do that, if I had a PA, but since I donāt, and am unlikely ever to be in such a position, I shall probably be found dead one day, under a pile of mismatched socks and unopened statements from Mastercard.
While sipping a cup of tea so scalding that it would take the throat off an average person, The Mothership becomes highly animated.
‘Disagreeable, Helen, not āunagreeableā, thereās no such word.’
I look bewildered. Iām just in the door and am still coat-clad and Sherpa-like, carrying my handbag, bookbag, and the basket I take for my lunch.
Seeing my confusion, she elaborates.
‘Your last blog post; that was just one of several mistakes I detected. We were taught those prefixes in school- you wouldnāt have caught us getting that wrong, would you Ronnie?’
My dad shakes his head. āIndeed you wouldnāt,ā he says.
āWhat you need,ā she goes on, āis an editor.ā
āIām not Marian Keyes,ā I say, divesting myself of garments while accepting hugs from small people as I edge closer to the teapot.
āNo, and youāre not likely to be either, if you keep making mistakes like that,ā she says, acerbically.
‘What I suggest,’ she goes on, ‘is that you give me your password for the blog and Iāll go in and vet everything, before its unleashed upon the general public.’
āWhatās that you say?ā She now has my full attention.
āYou obviously canāt proof-read it yourself, youāve made that much obvious,ā she continues, āand your sentences are FAR TOO long. They would be greatly improved by the use of the semi-colon.ā
āI do use semi-colons!ā I say indignantly.
āSure just write it down there, your password, and Iāll set to it this evening,ā she says, handing me a childās Newsletter from school. āPop it down on the back of that.ā
āFlipping sure I wonāt,ā I say.
Can you imagine it? God only knows what sheād be putting up, and sheād have all my āfucksā and āshitesā replaced by āHeavenās above!ā and āGoodness gracious.ā It wouldnāt read like my blog at all.
āStart your own blog!ā I say. āYOU see how easy it is to update it and proof read it and try not to offend anyone who may recognise themselves and never speak to you again.ā
There is a ruminative silence while she drinks her tea.
She is right though- there is no time, especially if youāve spent the last two Saturdays at the Aspects Festival in Bangor, learning from the best what it takes to craft a novel. Ā We looked at āMy name is Lucy Bartonā by Elizabeth Strout and āTravelling in a Strange Landā by David Park under the judicious eye of Patsy Horton from Blackstaff Press. They were both short novels but covered epic themes of love and loss and quiet desolation. They struck me deeply and the sessions afforded me the opportunity to do what I love best- dissecting a text; delving into its themes and identifying what made it singular; what made it come alive. I was a member of a book group for many years and loved it dearly, however, without a curator asking the right questions, it quickly became a brief chat about the novel and a excellent opportunity to drink merlot. This workshop therefore appealed to my inner geek, and I left feeling enriched and thrilled to have met some delightful folk.
The downside though, to spending your Saturdays doing literary things, is that youāre short of time for the banal but necessary tasks of homemaking. You forget things, like checking pockets and then popping fleeces into the washing machine with a packet of open Oreos in them. (LSB was not pleased about the soggy end his biscuits met.) Weāve spent most of Sunday cleaning and shopping and getting our shit together and yet I still feel the overwhelm acutely and the tension needling at my temples like sharp pins.
But you canāt give it all up can you? The soul must be fed, and if that means you have to hoover bits of dried Oreos out of your tumble drier, then so be it. And if anyone knows an editor willing to work pro bono then let me know, but herselfās not getting her hands on that password; no sirree.
*I decided to do this course at the last moment and LSB immediately had his phone out to order me the books from Amazon. ‘Stop right there!’ I said, and rang Books Paper Scissors on the Stranmillis Road instead. They confirmed that they had the books and Himself trotted over on his lunch hour to get them. Expedient, local, and not run by money grabbing corporate bastards; I’d much rather give these guys my custom .