Honestly, who knows? Part of the joy of this life is forgetting and then being reminded. A lot of details from this year are already vanishing into haze, and many were inflected with hormones such that, while I remember that there was joy or pain or sheer hell, I don’t remember how.
But this was a more simply memorable moment, opening an archive box that arrived in the post to find it full of individually wrapped presents from my team. For the most part work seems like a different universe, but I do have great colleagues, and it was lovely to catch up with those that I saw at the office the other day.
In progress. The book says boots, but really, if you’re not walking yet, there isn’t much difference. These have not got off to a good start: I got out of synch with the ribbing, then discovered I hadn’t cast on enough in the first place, so frogged the lot and started again. Consequently it hasn’t got very far. (The turquoise thing underneath is a cycling sweater which will, realistically, never get finished, so I should probably frog that too.)
I have already managed to finish a pair of bootees this year, slowly, slowly, little by little, row upon row. They came out smaller than I’d intended (I am usually too lazy to do a tension square, and particularly when it would work out about as big as the finished product) but a row of crochet round the edge sorted that out. You have to be prepared to improvise.
… my identity as a writer, for the moment at least.
My other best decision of 2023 was turning down my first ever book contract. I meant to write about that – first about getting it, then about turning it down – but I never managed it. Not longhand (can’t get to a flat surface), not touch typing (very rarely have both hands free), not dictating (distracts and confuses the baby). Any solution I find works for a week or so and then fails. All I’m managing is these tiny little blogs, typed with one hand on my phone
More to the point, I just don’t want to. The urge to write (fiction, long form non-fiction, poetry) has been patchy over the last couple of years, and non-existent over the last few months. I could force it, but why? Only recently have I found myself thinking myself back into a character’s head (what would Julian make of war memorials, anyway?), and I’m not in any position to do anything about it. There’s time. It’ll come back when it wants to come back.
In the meantime I’m refusing to beat myself up for not being Superwoman. A friend told me about seeing a documentary about Judith Kerr in which the great author said, very matter-of-factly, ‘Of course I couldn’t do any writing while the children were small.’ So there we go. If stepping back is good enough for her then it’s most definitely good enough for me.
I’m hoping it’s au revoir rather than goodbye. But, the way things stand at the moment, I’m honestly much less bothered than I’d have predicted two years ago.
I do try to be honest about my life on here, while also doing my best to respect the privacy of my nearest and dearest, and also assuming that nobody wants to see, for example, the nappy bucket. (Though the reusable nappies, which get about half of the use, are rather jolly, it’s true. Nevertheless.)
Anyway, under these layers of cat proofing is a rather lovely Victorian inlaid wood table, and that’s real life around here. Gorgeous stuff, if only you could see it.
Pa gave me this venerable pig on semi-permanent loan some time in the late 1990s, probably, and told me, “You must cherish him,” so I did, and then gave him back when I went to university, I should think, and then I reclaimed him last year.
I have a few of Pa’s old toys (for a war baby, he did extremely well). I’m still missing one of the Dutch dolls. I think Pa removed her from the dolls’ house to crew a steam engine, but where has she gone? I hope she’ll turn up as we continue to empty the house.
My favourite face is down there at the very edge of the photo. And this was a difficult day: I’d slipped getting out of the shower the day before, and bashed my knee such that moving around was incredibly painful. Four days stuck upstairs, and a whole week without leaving the house, as I remember. Hence why the baby gym was upstairs on the bed.
The biggest landslide since I’ve been acquainted with the Isle of Wight. For me, all it meant was a different bus, as one of the other two roads out of Ventnor was blocked for other reasons, but it’s going to mean a lot of inconvenience and heartache for those for whom it’s closer to home.
Actually about a quarter of an hour short, but who’s counting? This is island time. Taking a minute to look (well, squint) out over the Channel and explain to the baby that we were going to see her grandpa’s house. He would have thought she was wonderful.
Kathleen Jowitt 