I have just realised why I can't write anything creative at the moment. It's because my soul is depressed and weighed down. My thoughts, instead of soaring in space, are wearing concrete wellies. I may as well be at the bottom of the Thames, looking at the world through muddy water.
I was deep in Writing Magazine just now,drinking a mug of Earl Grey and munching a piece of my slightly singed cherry cake, searching for inspiration amongst the magazine's pages when all of a sudden Mr G clumped in with, "What are we having for dinner then?" Having just had tea and cake, I was replete and didn't want to think of more food, but he got ratty. Usually he just gets on with cooking something (as it's his house) and asks me if I fancy any. If he wishes me to cook, he needs to tell me earlier in the day. I often offer to cook, but he is much better at it than me, and usually doesn't like the way I cook or the meals I produce. For example, I like to throw fruit in a curry, and I love using root vegetables, which he hates, so, to keep the peace, I let him get on with it. After his strokes, I did all the cooking for a few day, then he insisted on taking over because he needed to. He wouldn't give up, even if he dropped stuff on the floor a hundred times. He is brilliant, I admire him immensely, but he is very difficult to live with and our food tastes hardly coincide at all.
There was nothing in my fridge and I hadn't a clue what was in his (yes, we have separate fridges because I can't cram my fruit and salad on top of his bacon and pies) so I answered vaguely, "I don't know, I'm not hungry at the moment" - because I can't decide on a meal when I'm feeling full. A few cross words ensued and he threw down the spuds and got out the frying pan, snorting "I'll sort myself out. I can't wait for you." Well, I wouldn't expect him to. He can eat when he damn well likes!
He goes to bed two hours before I do, gets up at least two hours earlier and his appetite is set to different times. He likes dinner at 6 pm, I like it between 8 and 8.30. And when I'm trying to think creative thoughts, I need to be left alone. I don't ask for much, just for some space. Now, I'm back in the freezing attic again, contemplating washing my hair and catching a chill - though that won't be as bad as the chill downstairs in the kitchen.
The unpleasant interruption has killed the tiny little ideas that were trying to germinate, like a sudden hard frost would wither seedlings. If only I could find my own place to live. Then we might get on better as I wouldn't feel like a permanent house guest. Perhaps my weighed-down soul would be able to shake off its concrete boots and learn how to fly again.