Daughter #1 has been picked to take part in a history event at school today on the French Revolution, and informed me casually yesterday that she needs to wear 'French peasant' clothes. Having spent a large proportion of the weekend wrestling with glue, tissue paper, sequins and pipe cleaners to produce a butterfly costume for Daughter #2 to wear in the school production of Captain Noah and his Floating Zoo, this news does not come at a good time. I embark upon an impassioned rant which highlights the importance of planning ahead and the need for effective communication, and draws her attention to the fact that all her clothes are emblazoned with slogans (probably the modern equivalent of 'Storm the Bastille', but inauthentic nonetheless). She looks at me with deep disdain and says 'Chill out mum, I'll just wear something of yours.'
Am distressed by this evidence that my daughter regards my wardrobe as being 200 years out of date and peasant-like.
Anyway, probably have to admit that the ranting and the self-pity are not entirely to do with peasant clothes, and more about progress on the book, which is slower than planned. Am halfway through, which in itself is not a bad thing as the first half always takes twice as long as the second, but feel like I've been splashing about in the shallows now for far too long and just want to strike out for deep water. Am longing for the time where the shore, and real life, is no longer visible and there's nothing to do but keep going until I reach the other side.
(Though, knowing my luck, at that point I'll be pursued by someone in a motor-boat with a megaphone demanding an exact replica of Tutankhamun's death mask or something.)