Continuing with my cheat’s version of Bloganuary in a weekly post.
I don’t aspire to blog daily, but I’m looking over the week’s Bloganuary prompts to pick-and-choose the ones I can think of something to blog about.
8th Jan: What do you like most about your writing?
I would like to say the sparkling characters and cunning plot twists, but I’d be lying.
As far as the process is concerned, I like editing – polishing the words until they shine ( – still working on that…) Sadly, this can only apply after I’m inspired to write something in the first place, which is rarer than I’d like.
I like that I don’t have deadlines (most of the time) and can drop my pen or take it up when I like. This also explains my lack of productivity.
9th Jan: What do people incorrectly assume about you?
That I know what I’m talking about.
10th Jan: What are five things you are grateful for?
One: my relatively good health (although the creaking’s getting more persistent).
Plus four: my four children were born healthy and with all faculties and moving parts present. (Minus toenails in one case, but toenails are just window-dressing.)
11th Jan: What does it mean to live boldly?
You’re watching too much old TV sci-fi?
12th Jan: What emoji(s) do you like to use?
Ones I can manage without having to search for them 🙂
Although, when a choice is available from the page I’m using, I generally go for the toasting glasses of fizz.
13th Jan: What does your ideal day look like?
Dry, no wind, sky mostly blue but temperature comfortable (some mid area between frosty sunshine and scorching).
No deadlines, meetings or appointments (I should mention I’m retired, so work doesn’t feature). No outstanding repairs or chores (I de-sludged the pond pumps the day before).
A leisurely walk with the dogs meeting other dog walkers (no growls or stand-offs. The dogs all play nicely too). Unexpected visitors and a pub lunch (a riverside pub would be nice).
14th Jan: Write about a challenge you faced and overcame.
Well, here we are at the end of the week, and the prompt I have least time to think about is the most challenging. Compared to many of the bloggers I read regularly, I’ve faced few serious challenges in my life.
One unwanted and, at the time, deeply resented challenge was moving out of the family home. It was an Edwardian semi-detached villa (built by and for the master builders of the terraces in the streets behind), and we’d been there 25 years. We had altered it over the years exactly as we wanted and I really did not want to leave.
My ex had taken the wing chair he wanted and his tools. Three of my children came to spend a Sunday helping clear the loft (the youngest was still at uni and would return to my new home). Apart from that it was down to me to relocate or dispose of the contents of three reception rooms, two bathrooms, three double bedrooms and a studio/attic, the eaves and loft space, three sheds and an outside laundry room.
My half of the family home was buying me a mid-terrace of similar vintage but with a small front room and kitchen/backroom, a downstairs bathroom and laundry room, two bedrooms, a boxroom and one small shed.
At that time, I had three dogs of my own and would be looking after my son’s dog while he worked away. He’d booked her into the vet’s to be neutered on the day of my move.
Just to help matters along, the plumbing refused to stop gushing when I disconnected the dishwasher on the day of the move. Other than turning off the mains water, I could see no quick solution, and since I wasn’t quite up to letting the new owners move in with no water supply (however obstructive they’d been over purchase negotiations) I told the estate agents I’d be leaving it behind.
Even now, I am shamed at the state the place must have been in when I left it, compared to the scouring I did when next I moved. Much as I loved the old house and missed the space we had come to take for granted, it was already becoming too much to maintain on my own.
I worked full-time and had taken a week off for the move. I spent my time steadily working through the boxes that the removals men had left stacked, and each box I flattened for disposal was a minor victory.
I’m not sure about “overcame”. It was a challenge I survived and came to terms with. Once I had made my own alterations and adjusted to the space limitations, I grew to love the new house too and was sad to leave it six years later. But six years can’t compete with twenty-five. Moving home seems to get a little easier each time I do it.
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This is becoming a useful exercise in rattling something off the top of my head. (Do my international readers recognise the saying, or is that a purely British expression? It basically means without giving the matter serious thought.)