I am now offering a critique and manuscript assessment service. For further details, please e mail me at

Sunday, 11 March 2012

Awards are like kittens, except you don't have to polish kittens. And they don't take your fingerprints.

Here in North Yorkshire Spring is sprung more firmly than an orthopaedic mattress, the sun is shining through the windows drawing attention to the dust and grime that have collected since...well, actually, given my approach to housework, since forever, and glinting gently off the planes and angles of my award.

Did I mention I'd won an award?

Ah.  Thought I might have done.  After all, it has been a cause of some celebration chez Lovering, although I haven't quite worked out my approach to getting the dust off it without compromising some of my more deeply-held beliefs vis a vis housework.  I thought that my usual 'Mother In Law is coming to visit, quick, make the place look presentable' approach (ie, run around blowing furiously at all flat surfaces, until whole inside of house invisible in dust cloud, then open windows and blame wind from Sahara) might work, but unfortunately glass is sticky.  Particularly when covered in fingerprints from frequent fondling.  I cuddle that damn award more than I'd cuddle a kitten that's been particularly poorly.
Did I mention I'd won an award?

Or this.  Tough choice, huh?

So, it turns out that it's less an award and more some kind of police procedure.  If anyone in authority gets their hands on it, a lot of unsolved crimes might become a lot less unsolved, that's all I'm saying.  Those 'prints from an unknown animal' that they found smeared all over the windows of the house that Johnny Depp stayed in in Bath when he came there to film?  Ahem.  And those points on it are really..well, pointy.  If I should fall over whilst carrying it - there's a whole Midsomer Murders episode, right there.

Anyway, where was I?  Ah yes, Spring in the House of El Smugo.  Well, I've reasoned that if I keep all the curtains closed then the dust isn't visible, plus the cobwebs keep the flies at bay. The overgrown lawn gives the hens something to do and that the dog hair on the floor is nearly as good as carpets.

Yep, my house is just like Sleeping Beauty's castle.  Boy is Prince Charming in for a shock if he comes riding by and thinks 'ooh, that looks like the place I might find a gorgeous, young princess lying awaiting a kiss...'  The screaming would be audible in Devon.  His, not mine, obviously.  Hacking your way through a lifetime of dust, undergrowth and crumbling brickwork to be greeted by
 this... probably also clutching a dusty and smeared award under one arm and a recovering kitten under the other, and I think maybe also cackling...well.  You can imagine, I'm sure.

Right.  Better get off now and polish my award...I mean, do some housework. Or lie in bed and eat toast. Hmmm... eenie meenie miny mo...

1 comment:

Chris Stovell said...

I love, love the image of your award being smothered in fingerprints from the frequent fondling.. if I ever won an award (worst review ever?) it would probably have a few lipsalve smears from being snogged at regular intervals too. Long may your celebrations continue.