Last week, I moaned about being up against it because of time constraints and not being in the mood. What a fool I was. Karma then decided to deliver me such a bitchslap that my head has almost disengaged from my neck.
My 19-year-old son has temporarily (please God, let it be temporarily) returned to the loving bosom of the family, complete with the swirling miasma of chaos, noise and confusion that perpetually surrounds him. Suddenly, there is no room; instruments have been packed and stored to make way for bin liners full of rags. There is no time, as every waking moment is taken up by discussions on everything from his finances and his washing to his lovelife and his friends, Marvel and Tarrantino, Wild Beasts, the meaning of life, and how terrible Muse are. The bowling alley has been reinstalled into my head. There is no privacy; he is omnipresent.
Of course, this means that her son's presence in these environs give The Evil One a legitimate reason to begin calling the house once more. So she has been. A lot.
On top of that, the time constraints that were already there haven't disappeared. Time, space and headspace have all shrunk to a pinprick. Solitude, calm and quiet contemplation are rare jewels indeed.
If I manage to produce anything this week that consists of more than a random thrashing at an instrument, accompanied by a persistent howling noise, I'll consider it a miracle. I have an unexpected half hour to myself right now, so I'm doing this. I haven't got time to write this and a song. Hopefully, I'll squeeze in an hour tomorrow and do it then.
