Weekly ramblings by Hilary Boyd
I thought I might update you on my currently scintillating life, folks. It’s been a long time since I blogged, mainly because I didn’t feel I had anything interesting to say.
Modelling’, now there’s a word to conjure with. Call me old-fashioned, but didn’t it used to mean beautiful people sashaying up and down a catwalk, or small toddlers mashing plasticine into what is supposed to be a cat or a frog? But those days are long gone.
Us Brits pride ourselves in being the best queuers in the world, don’t we? We know the drill. We form an orderly line when required, politely declaring, ‘Please, you were first’.
Getting older (note, older, not old, pls) is a royal pain. Although better than the alternative, perhaps. Much of it is a confidence thing. Some a physical thing. Or a memory thing.
My trusty little alarm clock sits idle. Gone are the days when our schedule frequently required us to be up and doing, catching trains or going places. Even getting up a bit earlier for a much-needed appointment to fix something – hair, muscles, eyes, car – seems a bit extreme..
We went on a recce at the weekend, for locations for my next book. The wind was howling and the rain tipping down.
I think I’m watching too much TV/online streaming platforms at the moment. But I’m starting to notice things that are beginning to annoy me big time.
We went swimming at the beach last week, twice! Both times were exhilarating. Whatever the conditions, being in the sea is somehow life-enhancing.
I’m in a much more cheerful mood this week. The reason? Food! Specifically, my sister, Judie’s, little cheese and chilli biscuits. Completely delicious to nibble with a glass of wine. I have no idea how she makes them, but I hope she doesn’t lose the will to do so.
Maybe I’m becoming increasingly grumpy in my old age. But I’m worried we’re all turning into a nation of navel-gazers. Our lives have become so small and self-contained, we seem to be focusing on ourselves to an unhealthy extent.
The virus is messing with my head again – amongst everything else it’s messing with. I’m just settling down to write my next novel. It was to be set in 2020, but now I’m having a drastic rethink. I can’t comfortably start a story that will span the year when I don’t know how it will all end. It’s not like Brexit, where you can just not mention the damn thing – leave politics out of the picture altogether.
I quite like having no social commitments. Sounds really terrible, doesn’t it? But, however much I look forward to seeing my friends – and I do – it’s really peaceful not to look at the week ahead and start making calculations about which London train to catch, when should I wash my hair so it’s not fluffy…