I guess it’s true that you are what you eat, because in the week my family was away I morphed into a hot cross bun.
Sweeping up the crumbs in preparation for their return I found this quotation by Ashleigh Brilliant:
“Sometimes the most urgent and vital thing you can possibly do is take a complete rest.”
It is a comforting thought – better than the idea that I need another pair of eyes around to keep me motivated.
Four horses, three dogs, two birds and a cat fix me in their limpid gaze. You still had us, they say, and anyway, you were showing signs of becoming a fruit cake even before the buns left the bakery. In that respect they are right.
Last month I bought my first (and last) copy of YOU magazine, enticed by the headline: “Palace Pressure as Book Bombs (Pippa struggles in Kate’s Shadow)”. My excuse is that I had just received notice of the “royalties” (ha!) for my first novel, so I felt a compelling sympathy for poor Pippa whose book on catering is “languishing in the bargain bins”.
All fellow feeling evaporated when I read that she had been paid an advance of 400,000 pounds sterling. Why does a vast monetary reward make it alright to have written a rubbish book? It should make it worse, but somehow it doesn’t. I was toasty with jealousy – very hot and very cross. Pass the butter.
Unfair remuneration makes me particularly angry when I think of all the impoverished editors toiling away without a lunch break in darkest Africa. Plus, I’m told, every time someone tunes in to a TV reality show, another book loses its binding. I wince whenever a film star wins an Oscar. Those overpaid macaroons have been accomplices in some truly tasteless literary massacres.
But at last, my family is back, and I have a deadline for March 19 and an editor of my own sniffing the internet for the final spicy pages of my latest confection. I have alphabetised the toast rack, disabled my Facebook accounts and sharpened my pencils ready for combat. There shall be no more buttery toasted buns for breakfast. Currants have lost all their allure since a little bird warned me that bakers are not the only people who wear white coats. However, someone must eat my Welcome Home chocolate cakes, as I don’t plan on baking again any time soon. On the next trip I’ll make sure they take me along too.
“We spill forth burnt revelations … /until all is spilt milk, souring in a warm sun.” – PH Davies, Suburbanite