Vicky Goes On (Again)

Words you may read…

  • More DIY and a mild breakdown (Through the Keyhole)

    Through the escutcheon

    I was supposed to really sort my bedroom out this weekend.

    Reader, I did not.

    My flatmate sorted his out and bragged to me about it. My flatmate is a tosser.

    I did learn that the metal bit surrounding a keyhole is called an escutcheon so who’s the real winner here? That’s right, me. I also learned that whoever fitted the keyhole, lock, and escutcheon on my flat door was a lunatic since they made the hole far too big for the escutcheon to be screwed into the door. I have therefore spent far too long putting Polyfilla in the hole and using a chopstick to ensure that the key can still go into the keyhole and then doing all of that all over again because I hadn’t allowed the Polyfilla to completely dry.

    What I’m saying is is that although I did not “do my room” I did do things. Because I am a procrastinator. I know, we all are nowadays. With our ADHD and neurodivergence but sometimes this comes in handy. When else am I going to fix a keyhole **escutcheon**? And look at my skills with a chopstick and Polyfilla! Fall on your knees in praise at my resourcefulness. I’m a goddamn Renaissance man. Woman. PERSON.

    Anyway, the keyhole is still not actually fixed but that is by the by. The bedroom is still a right state, but I’ll get to it later. Later. I’m off to do the washing up.

    ————————————————————————-

    P.S. When are the things actually done? Is it not true that there is always fucking something? Look, pardon my actual French but I am suddenly overwhelmed with anger about the fact that everything needs doing all of the time. When can we just be done!? OK, when we’re dead but then other people need to do an awful lot of things then too. I need a lie down.

  • Should I Stay(cation) or Should I Go?

    Basically I thought of the title of this first… so we’ll see how this goes.

    It really annoys me that people use the word ‘staycation’. It extra annoys me that they use the word ‘staycation’ when they are talking about taking a holiday in their home country.
    It is my view that a ‘staycation’ is when you take annual leave and stay at home. That’s the ‘staying’ part. If you leave your house and travel somewhere THAT’S A REGULAR VACATION. I don’t live in Cornwall (other places are available) so if I go there I am holidaying there.

    Also, and maybe I’m just showing my poverty-stricken childhood roots here, why do we have to go away for our Summer hols? And why do we feel like we’ve failed if we don’t? My mum was Spanish so when I was little we went to Spain a fair few times to stay with various aunts and uncles in very non-touristy 1980s Spain. These were resolutely not holidays. These were visiting family where there were no distractions of any kind. Except one time I found a small lizard which I touched with a blade of dried grass I found. And it wriggled.
    Good times.

    Also, we spend so much money on paying for our flats and houses and relatively little time actually being in them (unless you work from home, I suppose) – I wanna get my money’s worth, damn it. I recently had to take some time off from work for annual leave and I just hung out. I met up with some friends in the day, like we were on holiday in London. Explored places I’d never been to before. That was a staycation. I stayed at home. And, bonus, I caught the sun and it looked like I had been away somewhere.

    In fact, since I actually do live in London, an actual tourist-y place, why shouldn’t I be a tourist in my own hometown? Why do these holiday-makers get to have all the fun whilst I’m commuting and eating tuna pasta for dinner? HUH? I wanna get in office workers way on their lunch breaks.

    So, I won’t be going away this year because I am trying not to spend all of my money. Or maybe I will go somewhere in Winter? Or maybe not. I don’t know what I am doing in general.
    Should I stay or should I go? Maybe this isn’t just about holidaying.

  • On being a reader who does not read

    I used to read so much. I used to lie in bed on Saturdays and read and read and read, only getting up to go to the loo and grab a quick snack just to go back to bed and continue reading. I used to walk down the street, nose in a book, glancing up to make sure I wasn’t walking into a ditch. Man, I loved to read.

    And then my mum died. And I just couldn’t read any more. I couldn’t take the silence and I couldn’t pause my racing thoughts. I couldn’t quieten down. Every time I tried to the pain and anguish I was feeling at losing my mum would engulf me and I would cry and wail. I would think of the last time I saw her, holding her papery thin hands and remember that I would never do that again and I would close the book and distract myself (or cry and cry and cry). And then 2 years and 1 week later my dad died and all the mourning I had done for my mum added to the now current grief I was feeling for my dad and I thought about all of the things plus more and I could not open a book, nor watch a film, nor sit quietly with my thoughts because 99% of my thoughts were, “I miss my mum and dad”. Grief is a kicker.

    In the past 4 years I have read maybe 5 books. That’s not a lot of books. That’s slightly more than 1 book a year. For someone who could read 1 book a day this is devastating. What’s more, I have had to reconcile myself with the knowledge that I am no longer a “reader”. Right? So, when asked what my hobbies and interests are I can’t, in all good conscience, say ‘reading’. I can say, ‘reading Wikipedia entries for random nonsense that occurs to me in the 15 seconds of silence between finding stuff to listen to’, but it’s a bit wordy.

    I mean, what I’m saying here is who are we? Are we our hobbies? Our jobs? Are we our nationalities? Our teams? Our political parties? Yes and, of course, no. I can knit but I am not a knitter.

    I am a reader who does not read.