Life on the Home Front

So, the summer holidays slide inexorably on, although only the mouldering shell and fossil collections and as-yet unsorted piles of artwork and PE kit are firm evidence that it is, in fact summer at all. Every morning we seem to be greeted by lowering skies and impromptu rivers running down the garden, and have to think up new ideas for indoor entertainment.

I think that might be why I finally agreed to the guinea pigs.

Apparently I said yes ages ago, and since then daughters #2 and 3 have been secretly saving money, getting 'Look After Your Guinea Pig' type books out from the library and stockpiling doll's hairbrushes and blankets in preparation for the big day when they would arrive. Defenceless in the face of such skilled organisation, last week I found myself going along with the preparation of Muffin's old hutch and Monday saw us bearing home a big cardboard box containing Truffle and Biscuit (I know... the pets in this house clearly demonstrate the preoccupations of their owners. I put up a spirited argument for christening them Doris and Betty, which seemed much more in keeping with their little old-lady stoutness and busy, bustling movements, but was scornfully overruled in favour of more confectionary.)



They spent their first twenty four hours here huddled together at the back of the hutch watching beadily as the girls, suddenly possessed by some primitive nesting instinct, swept and tidied and prepared elaborate amusements for them to enjoy once the period of Settling In (advised by the girl in the pet centre) had passed. Many of these activites weren't entirely suitable, so the Barbie jeep and Sleeping Beauty Bed Set have been banished back to the toy cupboard, but the wooden fort (joint christmas present to all children years ago, and painstakingly painted by me a bit at a time on December evenings when they were all in bed) is enjoying a surprisingly successful renaissance as a guinea pig run. Truffle and Biscuit scurry along the ramparts and squeeze into the turrets, like grannies on a WI coach trip, looking for the tea room. We seem to spend hours, camped out in the conservatory where they've taken up residence, just watching them. (So does Ruby, only her expression is slightly less indulgent and more... speculative.)

Anyway, away from the domestic front, last night I ventured back to Liverpool at about the time when I'm usually sinking onto the sofa in my pyjamas with a cup of tea (ie 10pm) to take part in Linda McDermott's late night talk show on BBC radio Merseyside. It's a panel-type programme, which means lots of opportunity for gossip/discussion and driving into Liverpool I was so enjoying listening to the ladies talking about romantic films that I kept forgetting to check the road signs and ended up getting horribly lost. Luckily I found my way just in time to take my place in the studio at 11pm for a really enjoyable 40 minutes of chat on a wide range of romantic topics. Unfortunately I can't find a Listen Again link, so I'm tempted to claim airily to have been terribly articulate and incisive etc. However, far too many of you know me too well to believe that, and obviously people who heard it might be reading, so perhaps I'd better just say that it was huge fun and a lovely chance to publicise the Centenary Exhibition. If you're anywhere near Liverpool, go see it!

In the midst of all this I have to confess I'm struggling to fit in time to write, though the story and the characters are swirling insistently round my head, demanding attention. Thanks to my lovely laptop I've taken to snatching moments to frantically type a few paragraphs at the kitchen table or on the bed while supposedly sorting washing. Yesterday I was deeply involved in a lovely scene at breakfast time, and had successfully tuned out the arguments about whose turn it was to have the stickers in the cereal packet when daughter # 2 walked past and, glancing over my shoulder said in deep disgust, 'Eeeeuw. Mum's writing about pants.'

*sigh* I'm quite certain Virginia Woolf never had to put up with such restraints on her creativity.