In that case, I shall have a whinge. So there.

I can’t touch a bloody thing without it breaking at the moment. First my lap-top blue-screen-of-deathed me *sob*, then the oven went into a frenzy when I turned the grill on and blew every circuit in the house, and now, the blown fuse-box/ power surge from the oven’s demise has done something drastic to the main house hard-drive (why yes, we back up. H is a computer type. We totally have an external hard-drive) and this is messing with the brains of H’s computer (which he is kindly letting me use until I can sort the effing, blinding lap-top out). I am now absolutely convinced I am carrying a dark static cloud of electronic death about with me. I’m nervous even writing this in case something else goes kablooey. Perhaps I’ll delete the entire internet when I press ‘post’. That’ll be fun.

I’m very close to my extended-due-to-life-being-shit deadline on my first creative writing assignment and I am doing very badly. I was writing a jolly little short story about swimming lessons. Eh. H asked me yesterday how it was all going.

‘I wrote a poem,’ I said.

‘Excellent!’ he said, ‘That’s really encouraging! What’s it about?’

‘Dead babies.’

For some reason, this struck us both as hilarious and we laughed like owls for minutes on end.

Anyway, the jolly short story is rubbish, and I know it rubbish, and I shall have to submit it anyway, and I have never felt so like covering each page in footnotes and footnotes of excuses before in my life.

For I do have my footnotes, pace Pain Olympian Gold Medallists. They’re only footnotes. I’m not trying to claim them as the main thesis of my existance. Anyway, I’ll share them with you. Chiefly because they are going round and round and round in my head and this is interfering with the creative writing. And slightly because I may only be a bronze medallist, but hey! Bronze is shiny too!

You see, whenever I am trying to, in the old-fashioned phrase, ‘improve myself’ educationally or careerishly (lost cause, that last one), something always goes spectacularly shit-tastic in my personal/family life. To whit:

  • Just before my GCSE’s (exams of national importance taken at 16, for non-British and puzzled readers), I broke my arm, and had to take half my exams with a cast on.
  • During my A-levels (extremely important exams that university attendance is decided on, taken at 18), I started fainting on a regular, weekly basis. I was also in agony a lot of the time, and rather under-weight. It was all blamed on my periods, which were going to be just fine after I’d had a kid or two (such a sensible thing to say to a 17-year-old). I actually had a) glandular fever (infectious mononucleosis/ Epstein-Barr), b) a nicely developing eating disorder (in that, I didn’t) and c) a gigantic teratoma that eventually ripped my left ovary in half. I collapsed and was rushed to hospital for emergency surgery. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I always talk about my ovaries and fallopian tubes in the singular.
  • During the third year of my BA, my sister Trouble had a turn at being extremely ill. So ill that at one point she weighed less than 6 stone (80 lbs). Eventually she was diagnosed and got surgery and is now a skinny but reasonable 8 stone, so all was well, but at the time, we were all scared to death.
  • At the end of my MA, when H and I were living together for the first time, H lost his job, because of some rather disgusting office politics, and we were both forced to go and live with my mother until we could find new jobs. Yes, my MA suffered (I went from Golden Girl guaranteed a distinction to Slight Embarrassment lucky to pass at all).
  • During my PhD (which, thanks to the MA erk, my tutors were now a bit iffy about), my mother developed breast cancer. I took a year off to nurse her. My mother (thank God) recovered. My PhD didn’t.
  • During my second MA, I lost my first pregnancy. Did quite well in my dissertation. On reflection, would have preferred it the other way round.
  • Now I am doing a creative writing course. Jesus Christ, Universe, I was only doing it for fun.

There. I whinged. And now I shall stop whinging and go find some blessings to count.

If you are reading this, then I did not kill the Internet. Hurray!

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7 responses to “In that case, I shall have a whinge. So there.

  • a

    You should totally submit this as your writing assignment. No one would believe it to be true.

  • twangy

    The internet is functioning, amazingly! May’s electronic death cloud may only be limited to the Greater London Area.
    So take heart!

    (Sorry about the laptop. Oh dear, I hate that).

  • twangy

    And, I think you deserve more than a bronze, for that lot.
    That is quite a litany of disasters. You’ve filled your quota, now, surely..? Good luck from now on, would seem in order..

  • Betty M

    Nahh greater London internet still functioning – although come to think of it it did go dodgy earlier….
    I wish your laptop and the story well.

  • Teuchter

    Internets alive and kicking in this neck of the woods too.

    Just as you think life really isn’t fair, another load of shit lands on ones head.
    That fickle finger of fate needs pointing in someone else’s direction for a change.
    Perhaps we should hatch a plot to just blow up the damn thing altogether?

  • Womb For Improvement

    Your powers of destruction clearly don’t extend beyond your home.

  • Hairy Farmer Family

    Only thing that’s inexplicably died here was a goldfish, so I think you’re good.

    A local friend of mine went off to Oxford Uni as a mature student, and commuted back home one afternoon composing a poem as he drove. It was a poem about his beloved – oldish – merc, about which I remember almost nothing, except the last line… ‘with dead babies on his bumper.’ He thought it was darkly hilarious, too

    That list is a remarkable collection of absolutely horrid & shitty luck, sweetheart. Your literary endeavours have been plagued with awful happenings. I suppose some of the great & good didn’t precisely have a smooth ride of it, and it gave a lot of depth to their output – in a good way, I mean, not that it hit rock bottom. Not but what, if I was given the choice between trouble-free baby production and a literary meisterwerk production, I’d go for knocking out poor Danielle Steele imitations every time.

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