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Diary of a Homebody

Updated: Jul 10, 2019

This is the first the question on why I want to self-publish: Do I like staying home too much?

Probably. Thanks to Ian, my Love-Partner-husband-Friend, who works a proper-job, and our house being a bit of a shit-hole so almost paid for; the bills are taken care of, so I can. I have no excuse for not doing a proper job. I’ve done all sorts of work and have an assortment of skills. The shit-hole needs a lot of work using skills I don’t have, my kids could do with some money, we need a new sofa, mattress, and a bed for when the Eldest comes home. We like holidays. Retirement is at least a decade off.

Is writing a way of saying I am still working while not leaving the house? Justifying the luxury of not working for money?

It’s not like I have a lot to do at home. The Eldest is off doing his thing and the Youngest is nearly all grown up and doesn’t need much looking after. I won’t be talking about my family here by the way; I might be giving up a portion of my privacy because the How To guides all said you have to have a website and I couldn’t think of what else to put on it, but other people’s privacy is not mine to part with.

Getting the shit-hole clean enough to ensure no-one picks up a disease takes up to 20 minutes if I’m being fussy, which I am only when some-one I don’t know is going to see it, and I can always keep them talking in the kitchen, which isn’t as bad.

I’ve got a washing machine, a tumble dryer, microwave and even a dishwasher; without which the twenty-first century couldn’t have got to this both partners working scenario. Tescos deliver. I help out with my friend Ceri’s Charity, WORLDwrite, once or twice a week but that is all she needs of me. Now and again, I do a few days of agency teaching to pay for the Youngest’s clothes (what I could say about those) or a bit of a holiday. I do some perfunctory gardening, but our yard is tiny, in full-shade and gardening is quite boring really. I like reading.

But the truth is I am sort of addicted to this writing lark and, just like the fags, I can’t give up.

Instead of proper-jobbing I usually put on a load of washing, feed whoever is awake, have a fag and get writing until it’s time to dry the wet things. I have a coffee and a fag, then get back on the laptop again until a lunch of leftovers or toast and a fag, and write some more until it’s time to cook the supper.

Which is all very well, but what am I writing for?

Saved by the beep; it’s time to hang up the washing. And have a fag.

With five words to spare, great.

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