Trick or treatin’
My boys and I went on holiday last week for Halloween, visiting the fam in good ole ATL for some proper trick-or-treating American style. With every house in my old neighbourhood bedecked with orange lights, cotton spider webbing stretched across buxus shrubbery, white sheets disguised as ghosts dangling from trees as though hovering in mid-air and jack-o- lanterns greeting you at every doorstep it goes without saying (but I will anyway), when we do Halloween, we go BIG. Yes, we, I’m still American despite my 12 years and counting in Blighty. It was a welcome time away where I enjoyed my sugar-injected American cereals, cheese grits, sweet tea and proper peanut butter. It’s the little things I miss.
My eldest was the Gruffalo’s Child and more than one reveller mistook him for the Facebook Giraffe. Huh? Really? C’mon peeps. One, who doesn’t know the Gruffalo? (Julia Donaldson is missing a trick. Jules, if you’re reading this, call me.) And two, why a giraffe? Hmm… perhaps this riddle-telling vertically enhanced mammal could give me tips on how I could go viral. Open for suggestions. Anyone? Anyone? Actually, let’s be honest, I’d settle for reaching 100 likes. Baby steps.
Anyway, twilight descended and there was my little Gruffalo-slash-giraffe playing catch-up from house to house (him being a bit new to this whole Halloween gig) as his cousins sprinted ahead in fear the candy would mysteriously vanish before they got their mits on it. D and I trailed with our toddler, thermos of Pinot Noir in one hand and steering the Maclaren with the other in a breezy 19 degrees celsius. Bliss.
I know, what does any of this have to do with writing or the book? Absolutely nothing. Why am I telling all this? I’m not sure really. Just felt like sharing and I’m on a lovely natural high having enjoyed a relaxing break from my day to day routine, not to mention writing. The irony being I had actually made quite lofty ambitions when packing, hastily tossing my Writers’ Yearbook into our suitcase before the cab arrived with every intention to research some potential agents/publishers/editors, etc. whilst at home. (And no, in the case you were wondering, I don’t have any of the above. Yet.) Of course there was little risk I’d achieve much, yet in a strange way bringing it (that 800 page behemoth and thus far handy doorstop) helped satisfy, however minutely, the lingering guilt I harboured knowing I was unlikely to do an ounce of work toward the book for ten days. So did I open it? Did I? Feck. (Sorry, Mum). Its binding is as stiff and uncreased as the day I bought it from Foyle’s last month. Oh well. There’s always tomorrow.
