Sunday & Shakira

7.50am (awake since 6.45am)

Got up to help Naoise have a shower, he is now back in bed cuddling his dad. Washing machine is on chugging away, a gentle comforting sound. I enjoy hearing the weight of the clothes brushing the sides of the metal drum and the churning of the water.

Its a beautiful morning , bright and sunny, I want to be out in it. I am going to walk out in it as soon as this is done. We need a loaf of bread and some eggs from the local shop. Syds friend slept over, they are already awake, watching a programme together in bed.


Its all too early, I had imagined a long lie peaceful, rejuvenating lie in, no such luck. Once awake, I am AWAKE. I should have known better than to ask Patrick to wake up and take care of Naoise in the bathroom, big mistake, this just led to an argument. A boring argument about the same old same old. I cannot really go into the specific details that would only set fuel to the fire, though I would like to write about it, I cannot, it would be a betrayal. I would only cause more problems for myself. It is simply not worth it.

Children are simple, straight forward, my love for them carries no disappointment, resentment or hurt. Keeping a relationship going whilst raising children is close to impossible. I don’t think I have ever successfully mastered that. I am a failure in the relationship department. An utter failure.

I am happy to acknowledge my failure. I think that this project is failing at this moment, I am censoring myself and what I say. If these were words written in a book, perhaps I would write the truth. Maybe that is what I need to do, just write words for me, keep secrets, work them through alone, so I can at least speak freely.


I feel so hemmed in, caged and without personal space. I need to tidy and clean the house I am sick of the mess and the clutter and the domestic devastation. Its strange that I feel caged, as I was lucky enough to go out with my friends last night, just in Todmorden, but that is still out, that is still time away from family, care work and house work. It was fun, we talked and laughed we shared words, wisdom and affection, we women put the world to rights.

In The Polished Knob, there were curly perms, flowery male shirts not tucked in, middle aged couples snogging, a crush of people at the bar, a selection of dips available for 30p each, and a band playing The Cure and Crowded House and other tracks of cringe and nostalgia.

At the end of the night, I admitted to liking Shakira; too many ciders talking or the truth? Well I have to say since looking up the selection of available Shakira videos available to view, wow I love her even more, so much choice. I’d love to dance on a pavement in a golden bikini, roller skate through a hot city, jump in a fountain, undress on the street or stare at the moon, pant, be a she wolf gyrating in a golden cage. I’d love to move like her, be able to sing spanish, have a body like her, she is amazing.

The Poet and the Princess, The Guardian, by Gabriel García Márquez, 8th June 2002

The buzzer on the oven is beeping, twenty minutes of time gone.

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