What are you thinking? Yes, you, right now, aside from: ‘Why is he picking on me, I ain’t dun nottin’ wrong?’ This is the challenge set by AgeingMatron and RandomPearlsofWisdom and – an exploration, a scientific study into the inner-most workings of our minds, of the nagging/entertaining/anxious voice within all of us.
Keep a diary of the thoughts you never share with the rest of the world – then share them on your blog.
Here are mine…
That was a great dream…shit, I’ve forgotten it already. What was it about? It was a great dream, I’m sure of that, but who was in it? Where was it set? I know it was a brilliant dream, I just have a feeling, but I can’t for the life of me recall it. Perhaps if I go back to sleep it will come back to me but…
Oh, God, I hope the bathroom’s free…I should have got up in the night to get ahead of the wife getting ready for work. Why oh why does she have to take so long in there? I mean, it’s a shower. Spray and go. She’s not a dirty woman, overly clean, in fact. She could easily have a shower every other day. Christ, my bladder is burning. Perhaps if I pace around the room for a while it will go away.
Aaargh, who’s in there NOW? It was MY turn, now my stepdaughter’s in there. Just looking in the mirror no doubt. Gazing vacantly when she should be brushing her teeth. I’d better get outside the door before the boys beat me to it.
Oh wow. Oh, jeez, wow. That feels amazing. Oh, wow, that is wonderful. Shake the drops. Yes. And put the bloody seat down. Why, though? There are three boys in this house and two girls. Why is it so bloody difficult for them to raise the lid? It’s just as much effort to put it down.
Nag, nag, nag, can you hear yourself? You sound like an old woman. What if I didn’t nag? Would stuff still get done? Would the eldest brush her hair without me telling her to? Would the boys wash their faces and clean their teeth if I didn’t micro-manage every single solitary step of the way?
Shreddies all over the floor again. Again! What is so bloody difficult about moving spoon to mouth and then inserting? Perhaps they have a Shreddie Fight when I’m not looking? Perhaps they just pick out the un-square ones and casually drop them on the floor, with a ‘Dad’ll sort that out’ laissez-faireness. If we had a dog, it could just hoover them up. But we can’t have a dog, really, not in a flat. I know there are small ones, and ones that don’t shed, and ones that are hypo-allergenic, but it’s not really fair on the dog,is it, living in a flat with no garden? I know the kids would love a dog, but I’m not so sure. What they really want is a puppy, but puppies grow up and become beasts, don’t they? No, next time they ask about a dog, I’ll say only when they’ve learned to PUT THE BLOODY SHREDDIES IN THEIR GOS WHERE THEY BELONG.
I need to time the school run just right, so that I don’t bump into anyone. I can’t stand walking-to-school smalltalk. You have to walk at their pace, whereas I like to get in and get out as quickly as possible. Perhaps I should have joined the SAS. They’re good at that kind of thing, aren’t they? ‘Sorry, can’t stop, I’ve got an embassy to storm.’ Yeah, that would suit me, though my version would be: ‘Sorry, can’t stop. I’ve left the iron on.’
What shall we have for dinner tonight? Decisions, decisions. It was meat last night, so will give my lower bowel a break today. Maybe Chicken Pad Thai? Nah, I haven’t got enough in. I’ve still got those leeks my brother–in-law left me. Not very exciting, but I could maybe stir-fry them with some mushrooms and cream as a side for some steamed ginger chicken. Heston might inspire me. Let’s have a look at the book.
Oh Heston, Heston, Heston. You are my lifesaver. You are my life. Braised chicken thighs, with leeks and mushrooms. That’s the way forward. With baby Jersey Royals. Oh yes, the missues will like that. A brownie point or two = an hour or two in the pub. I know I spend too much time in there, but it’s a sanctuary from this domestic prison.
Excellent. Wife’s home. A few ‘how was your day?’ platitudes, a quick moan about how difficult the kids have been this evening, and then a pregnant pause before she says: ‘Why don’t you go down the pub for an hour? You sound like you need a break.’ Bingo.
What? WHAT? WHAT DID SHE SAY? She hasn’t bloody said anything. I can’t really say, ‘Is it OK if I head to the pub for an hour?’ can I? That’s not the way it works. She suggests; I act. That’s the psychological dynamic: she feels good about herself for doing me a favour; I feel good about myself for not having to beg. But she’s making me beg, I can tell. She’s got that look in her eye. The look that says: ‘I know what you’re thinking, I know what you want, but I’ve had a hard day, too, so you need to do a bit of buttering up.’
Bollocks. There are people here I know. They haven’t seen me yet. Perhaps if I slink into the corner they won’t notice me. AAAARGH! They’ve noticed. They’re coming over. Adopt agressive-Manc ‘I’m really f***ing stressed and busy’ body language. Keep your head down, stare at the keys, type this post furiously. Look up every now and again, nod politely, smile insincerely. They must be able to see that I’m ‘working’. They’re not going to make me SAY it are they? What is it about my body language that makes them think I am remotely interested in what they did at work today? I am sometimes, but not now – I’M WRITING THIS POST SO F*** OFF.
