“Come in here and measure my head! I’m buying a hat online and I want to get it right.”
These bizarre words floated into my consciousness when I was writing, old fashioned style, using a pen and large notebook.
My husband was using the Laptop in my little den. He had come in as I was writing and explained that he needed to do a few urgent things; that the big PC upstairs was now just too slow, everything took absolutely ages, and ended by telling me what a pain in the neck all that wasted time was.
I had logged out, left him to it, gone into the kitchen with the great idea that while he was busy in there, doing his urgent things, I would use that time to make something of all the notes I had scribbled on bits of paper and thrown into ‘The Drawer.’
Now this is The Drawer that I’m sure everyone (writer or not) has; you find your small mirror there, the top of that compact that fell on the tiled floor, broke in two but you felt the top, black with inlaid pink design was simply too lovely to throw out.
There’s also that huge grip for holding back hair when cooking, but you forgot where it was, and there is the broken necklace, all the beads in a small plastic bag, that will one day surely be fixed, beside a very old but lovely soft lip gloss, a snazzy travel shower-cap (why?), that wildly expensive tube of hand cream that reminds you of when it was received as a gift, you made a vow there and then to pick it up and faithfully use it each and every time you washed your hands. It's still full.
And oh look, there are those e-mail addresses from that trip we went on to northern Spain; I wonder how he is, that great guy, and did his big new job work out in Madrid?
Floating around in the midst of all this detritus are lots and lots of notes, written on the backs on envelopes, old business cards, postcards and torn off bits of paper. Writing wise, I am something of an organised woman. Every so often I take these notes from The Drawer and put them into various files in my Laptop. If I want to develop an idea, I find the physical writing into an A4 pad very useful.
But on that day I didn’t get very far; in no time I was loudly requested to race in and measure the head of the man who had earlier spent a good five minutes explaining to me his need for time on the Laptop in order to do urgent things.
It is interesting, is it not, to note how one person views the others creativity as something that can be interrupted whenever, while their own activities are accorded the highest level of importance. Deep breaths, a plan to clear out the drawer another time, I picked up the tape measure and went back into my den to assist him in the hat buying.