The Enemy of Creativity
May Blossom’s in Year One now, which was easy to tell at drop-off this morning because seventy-five percent of the class had a hand in their mouth playing with their new wobbly teeth.
Garnet’s started at new preschool, closer to home and he scootered himself down there this morning as happy as can be. It’s the same pre-school I went to. They appear to have all the same toys they did in 1983.
The missing hat threw me a bit this morning, because I was determined to be Super Organised Lady today. The lunches were made, the socks were located and everyone was ready to go bang on time, because this school year I am not going to be merely arsing about, entertaining small children and blogging sporadically, but I am going to be doing those things in addition to writing this wretched dreadful book of mine.
To that end I have a schedule, and self imposed deadlines, and I’ve set myself up at the mostly clear kitchen table, which only has a small amount of porridge on it. I have a fully charged computer and I’ve switched off Facebook. I have a huge iced coffee, a fan to move the forty-degree air around in a desultory fashion, and a pair of noise-cancelling headphones to drown out the builders next door.
I have absolutely definitely not gone out two days ago and bought the distraction to end all distractions, a small blue Burmese kitten called Leonard Cohen.
Oh, no wait. I have done that. This book is doomed. Cyril Connolly was mistaken. There is a more sombre enemy of good art than the pram in the hall. It’s the three-month-old kitten. And he’s only sombre because of the heat.