Oh rubbish.

There’s always something you forget. I forgot the blog.

It’s the Hartshorn Hook Christmas party. This is a company I care deeply about. Their party is in the building where we are doing Christmas Carol. Of all the nights.

I’ve got an R&D tomorrow for a different company, paid, for a job I’d totally love to do. Starting in the morning. Early.

There were friends I really wanted to spend time with. Humans that I’ve mingled with loads over many strange changes. I left early but I tried to make every second count. But I’ve just got home and realised that despite the need for an early bed I haven’t written to you lot.

Had I been a bit more together I’d have written about my breakfast ages ago. Although my breakfast was not particularly edifying today. It was Weetabix, with hot water and a splash of milk, coupled with enough espresso to cause a riot. Hot weetabix was the only thing I’d eat as a child, and my pre microwave mother taught me to have it with hot water from the kettle and a spot of cold milk to pretend it was hot milk. Her labour saving has become my habit. I’m very happy with it that way. I might sprinkle a bit of sugar on top. But only if dad isn’t watching.

Dad was a Scotsman, and was perhaps more tyrannical about porage than anything else. He would make a bowl and put it in front of me as I arrived at breakfast. He cooked it with salt. If I added milk, his attention would prick up. If I reached for any form of sugar his attention would EXPLODE. It used to make me retch, unmilked and unsweetened, that shitty scrutinised porage. But I would sit there under his scrutiny, and finish my salty oats because he was dad and he knew best. Maybe it would make me a man? Certainly it would teach me that you can eat all sorts of fucking horrible shit and pretend like you enjoy it. That’s a skill that’s done me well. Dad taught me a huge amount by being an angry and very particular irascibile beautiful bastard.

The fact he was a Scotsman living away from home, with his musicality and his burr – it has suddenly come home for me, as my agent has put me up for a role that is exactly that. A well known figure who speaks with the same burr that distinguished my father and my half brothers. My extended family are just plain Scottish. The burr is only relevant for people who live amongst the English and wish to be understood. I am the youngest. I never lived in Scotland. My natural accent has none of that character, but I know it.

It’s meant to be my day off tomorrow but I’m doing this R&D and then on Tuesday I’m going to need to be on point with my burr.

Meh. I’m off to sleep. My key is in a flowerpot outside. I’m hoping my friend Anna will find it.

Here’s a photo of lots of boxes of crackers. It’s the only photo I took today. I probably thought I’d write something about them. Ho hum. Good night.



Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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