Dear Diary,
Sunday: aaaaaaaand rest. Supposedly. I’m not a believer but, if my general knowledge isn’t leading me astray, this is what the creator told us to do on the seventh day, correct? Relax, darlings. Give your old bones a break.
But I’ve filled my Sunday with ‘stuff’; all good, enjoyable ‘stuff’ (well, minus the cleaning) but ‘stuff’. I don’t think I’ve got a second to spare between writing to you, and reading my non-fiction and fiction books, walking the dogs, speaking to my parents, sliding anti-bacterial wipes across all manners of surfaces, brainstorming ideas for a story, transposing musings from various notebooks into Word, and doing a few exciting online purchases (details below).
As disappointing as it is (and, by the way, I’m not moaning about my Christmas presents), I didn’t receive a 2024 Planner at the end of 2023. Anyone, who knows the first damn thing about me, will be painfully aware that I love stationery and am obsessed with ‘To Do’ lists. A Year Planner is an obvious gift choice, but last December no one considered the need for me to be well-organised. I’m now plagued by 2024 Diary dilemmas, for I’ve realised January is almost gone and I’m lost in the sea of responsibilities and deadlines. I can’t remember how, but I’ve come across a new (for me) stationery website which is … bad news; I’ve struggled to reduce the number of items in my cart. And now, we wait.
The Week’s Round-Up
Earlier in the week, I packed the small, purple suitcase with dodgy wheels and the tattered Slazenger rucksack – I’d bought it years ago when I was still training, and now I drag it with me on my work-related travels for I’ve abandoned the idea of looking fashionable altogether – and made my way to London. The chilly weather, ruling over the UK since Monday, is abnormal. Negative temperatures. Strong winds. Thick, white frost covered the ground on which my modestly heeled autumn shoes (silly, I know) clicked in a practised rhythm; quick steps to ensure a punctual arrival at Platform One. The ice had formed uninterrupted, pretty patterns over the course of the even colder night, and now, teaming up with the streetlights, their shift not over yet, was glistening and begging for attention. ‘Stranger? Hey! You, yes you. See that? It’s amazing, non? I did it myself; I, Nature, drew this. I had no lessons; I was born this way.’
To secure extra face-to-face opportunities with colleagues, I was London-bound on a 5:40am train, conveniently followed by a 6:32am connection to the big L itself. A last-minute Platform alteration and an inconsequential delay later, I sat down at seat B06 (backward facing), nursing a centre-of-the-sun hot, large Black Americano and pleading with my brain to fire up. Unread emails aside, it was my responsibility to draft the Meeting Agenda and complete a review of the 200-row spreadsheet accompanying it. Buzzing, are we? Of course, not. Unlike my usual journey (a 7:01 am), this was bearable. The crack-of-dawn slot meant most people’s brains hadn’t gotten in gear yet either, boosting my productivity rates and the speed of the wi-fi. Praise the gods, for once, the card machine in the on-board café was not broken, and I dobbed an apple and cinnamon pot of porridge…
The trip was short, yet exhausting. I was desperate for a(n) ultra glass of wine by 6pm on Friday; by that point, I was incoherent and, for the sake of everyone around, decided to sip grape juice instead of spitting gibberish. However, I’d carved out time for a stint of journaling on Tuesday evening (despite the desire to sleep) and my Morning Pages on the Wednesday (yay for taking my notebooks and writing in them!). Pretending to be a writer and embracing the quirks of a creative’s life, I’d carried a pocket-sized notebook for sporadic thoughts en route to London and back; it gave me an excuse to discreetly eavesdrop on people’s conversations (oblivious they were to my attentive ears) on the train and tube, in the streets.
The action-packed week was concluded by the second Writer’s Club / Group of 2024 on Friday afternoon. In direct opposition to the jitters that I experienced prior to and during the first meeting, I was eager to see my fellow writers. While not everyone was in attendance, I made acquaintances with two new people (one of them had previously been to the Club / Group) and it was a successful gathering. The poetry, right off the bat, threw me off, but we live to push ourselves out of our comfort zones. Bring it on! I walked away from it, exhilaration running in my veins; even if I was still the worst writer and had to return to my work desk before chugging a copious amount of Yellow Tail.
The Little Things
Late on Saturday morning, I attended my hair appointment: a dedicated setting in which I, all of a sudden, look younger than I actually am and complain about the state of the economy, and the injustice that is my life catch up on gossip. Hairdressers, nail technicians, beauty therapists. They are not just hairdressers, nail technicians, beauty therapists. They are much more; they are news anchors, emotional dust bins, listeners, a personalised helpline, saints. I skipped out and was oh ‘so fresh, so clean’.
It may be insignificant to some, but I’ve been speaking to other people about my writing. I’ve now told two co-workers and a couple of friends. It’s an ‘embarrassing’ thing to admit (fingers crossed, the embarrassment goes away), but everyone has been super supportive (of course, they were). We tend to invent stories in our heads – stories not always worthy of being written down – that we’ll be a laughing stock, the town’s freak. We never believe they will cheer us on, and yet they do.