Dare I

8.10 am (at the table in the front room)

Dare I even attempt to write this, why the hell not. Naoise is dressed and had his breakfast, bags packed, scooters at the ready. All we need to do is get his teeth brushed, shoes on and we can slide down the hill to school on the scooters. Scootering side by side talking on the way.

I helped him to do his food homework. The rebellion did not work and so I have conformed. I have taken part in this ludicrous activity. Naoise struggled to write, he enjoyed drawing a cocoa tree and a banana tree but letters and words and sentences were formed so so so so slowly. He nearly gave up and I had to use the powers of persuasion and bribery to get him to complete the task. Its too much, a six year old does not need homework. Play should be the only homework that he has. I bribed him with the promise of some time on the computer.


We did have a very creative day yesterday. Naoise drew onto plain canvas bags with permanent markers. He drew a snowman melting in a hot sun and a squirrel balanced on a post eating nuts. We walked out in the incredibly hot and beautiful November sunshine. We walked my friends little puppy.  The puppy pulled and tugged and sniffed and got excited.

This is post 287 of this year long project. The laundry is tumbling in the dryer, the humming sound is a comfort.


Where to begin and where to end? Theoretically I should end on the 16th December, that is if I am to properly follow the rules. Alternatively I could go on until the middle of January by which time as long as I don’t fail to miss a day of writing I would make the magical 365 posts. I am not sure which is the best way…..I will let the project decide for  itself.

Mum, mum, can I watch something. Please mum. Mum. MUM. Can you answer me MUM

I don’t answer I am not getting out the computer so that he can watch TV. He can watch the mist rising. He can listen to the cars woosh past on the main road. He can dream. He can be bored. He has stopped hassling me, so ignoring really does work.


Syd was a complete grump this morning, rude and nasty. He keeps demanding a new phone. He is lost without a phone. He asks to borrow mine, I decline his request. He will be ok. He will survive. The phone is more an umbilical cord than just a material good. Its a talisman. Its a magical object. Its a container.

The oven buzzer is beeping fifteen minutes gone, and I must keep to the time as the teeth need brushing and the shoes need putting on and Naoise needs waking from his sofa sleep.

After the school run

I am permitting myself the luxury of a little more me time. Wanted to record some observations; Naoise telling me about the spider the size of his thumb nail that could spin silk that was as strong as steel. Conversations in the playground, one mother telling me how getting her children to do tasks around her home has revolutionised her life in one weekend. I need this method, so she is sending me the details. There were rewards and age appropriate tasks care of a Montessori website. I definitely need this system. I cooked dinner and cleaned up last night and no one helped me. I am not in the business of bringing up boys who are incapable of helping out around the house.


The domestic is not gendered. The house is not my job. Its our job. Its a house we share as a family. I need to get the boys to muck in.

I have written a ridiculous list of to do’s, if I get just to cross off one thing from the list then that will be good.

I am dreaming of blog posts written on T-Towels. I am dreaming up ways to make my art into objects that might provide me with some income. A tea towel with a squirrel or a friendly fox probably would go down well, but not sure anyone wants my personal rantings immortalised on cotton. Or maybe they do?


Embrace the messiness of UK arts and culture

Naked artist Poppy Jackson straddles the personal and political, Lyn Gardner, Monday 2nd November, The Guardian

The other KKK: how the Kindred of the Kibbo Kift tried to craft a new world, Jon Savage, Monday 2nd November, The Guardian

Bare Reality: 100 Women their breasts their stories , Laura Dodson





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