That Was The Weekend That Was...
Feb. 28th, 2005 10:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
athersgeoWell, I'm back and mostly recovered. I also (wisely) decided to have today off work - on account of prior experiences. On the upside, though, no migrane yesterday (also, no chocolate torte. Hmmmm. Me thinks we've found the cause of my Gather migranes, then...seeing as I had about the same amount of sleep as I've had the previous two Gatherings!).
Had a fabulous time - it was great to see everyone again, and very, very much fun. I was also deeply impressed that someone (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
gem_63 I think) noticed I'd dyed my hair. I can safely say that you guys spotted it faster than my brother!
In particular, the progressive games were very much fun (I've discovered I'm crap at anything that requires digital dexterity, excellent at guessing the weight of objects just from heafting them and dubious at balloon sculpting...), as were the bedtime drabbles. There were some truly lovely ones, some truly hysterical ones...
The Sock Eater
Joey stared at the page before her. She wanted to write but, for once, her muse had deserted her. That was the problem with being a writer; everyone expected you to be able to come up with something whenever they wanted you to, and sometimes, inspiration refused to cooperate.
What was particularly annoying about this batch of writer's block, however, was the time limit. She had promised the triplets a new story when they came home from their first term as 'big' school girls (boarders in anyone else's language), but with the great day approaching she was drawing a rapid, big, fat blank on just what she could write.
She didn't want to write them a school story because, after all, they would have just completed a term at school. She didn't want to write a guiding story because most of the themes of that movement were beyond the triplets just yet. She didn't want to write them a story about a princess being rescued or any other similar sort of story because that would only please Con and this story had to please all three. Nor did she want to reuse any of the tales she'd told to any of her nieces and nephews because this story was supposed to be written just for Len, Con and Margot.
So she was stuck.
For a whole morning, Joey stared at the page, willing inspiration to hit, but her mind remained obstinately blank – and consequently, so did the page. The only ideas that occurred to her were either wildly inappropriate or astoundingly trite.
Finally, in disgust – and knowing that she still had a few days in which to conjure up some magic for her three eldest children – Joey dropped her pen back onto her desk and stood up. She stretched and slowly meandered through the house. Anna had taken Stephen and Charles out for the morning, taking advantage of the unexpectedly fine weather to allow the two boys a chance to run off their excess energy, which made the place seem inordinately big.
She reached the kitchen, intending to make herself a pot of tea, when her gaze fell on a pile of laundry that Anna had been airing on the great wooden clotheshorse. On the top of the pile were three of Jack's socks and it brought back the memory of a conversation from earlier in the week.
"I am sure," Anna had said thoughtfully, "that Dr Jack is developing a third foot."
Joey had goggled a little at this statement from so matter-of-fact a person as Anna. "What ever can you mean?" she finally enquired.
"What I say," Anna had answered, and produced three of Dr Jack's socks, not one single one of which matched. "Either he is developing a third foot, or something is eating his socks on laundry day."
Seeing the trio of socks now, Joey was suddenly moved to wonder what difficulties a centipede might face, should that centipede have socks…
Joey raced back to her study in a manner more fitting of someone a bare quarter of her age. She took up her seat once more, picked up her pen and wrote the title at the top of the page that only moments earlier had seemed to be mocking her. Then, not wasting any time, she began: Hundred Legs was a centipede…
The Normal One
It's hard to be a Maynard when you're the normal one. There's Len and Steve, the responsible ones. There's Mike and Margot, the naughty ones. Con and Felicity, they're the creative ones. Phil's the delicate one; Charles is the quiet one; Geoff and Felix are the sports mad ones.
And then there's me. Normal me.
Margot, Charles, Len and Steve got the lions share of intelligence; Con, Mike, Fliss and Phil work hard; Felix and Geoff both put their energy into their sports, content to skull along mid-form as long they're in the form team for this or the school team for that.
And then there's me. Normal me.
Len got a first from Oxford for modern languages. Con got an upper second from Oxford for English – and has her second book of poetry coming out in a week or so. Margot qualified top of her class and is off in the jungle of South America, working as a medical missionary. Steve's just finished his degree – an engineering degree from 'only' a polytechnic in Manchester, but he's got a first all the same and a guaranteed job working for Rolls Royce, designing engines for aeroplanes. Charles is doing theology at Cambridge – he's bound to get a first, too. Mike goes to Dartmouth in a year's time – I don't know how well he'll do there, but he's sure to excel. Fliss is aiming high too; though her sights are set on the Julliard school in New York, though ballet is her main passion, she's too keen on acting and singing to just focus on that. Felix plans to go in for law. Geoff and Phil are too young to have plans yet, but whatever they choose, you can bet they'll exceed any expectations.
And then there's me. Normal me.
I don't have any of those lofty ambitions. I don't excel at work; I don't shine on the hockey pitch or the lacrosse field. My voice is thin and reedy and I couldn't dance if you paid me! I won't go on to university; I won't write my first novel before I'm twenty. I won't do all of those things. I'm just average. Strictly average and one hundred percent normal, that's me.
And some days, that gets to me. Some days, I think I must be such a let down amongst my brilliant siblings. The one who'll never achieve the bright lights. Some days, I wonder just why it is that I am so normal compared to everyone else.
And sometimes, I know. "You're my touchstone," Fliss says. "You're so calm and so collected; I know I can talk to you about anything and you'll listen and help me straighten my thoughts out." And at some time or another, they've all said that to me. I'm the person the turn to for the things that they can't confide in our parents. I'm the one who knows all their hopes and fears.
I'll never be extraordinary; I'll always be the regular one who doesn't stand out in a crowd. But that doesn't mean I don't have a place in the family. Perhaps, I'm the most important one out of all eleven of us. I'm the one who listens.
At least I wasn't depresso gal again!
Had a fabulous time - it was great to see everyone again, and very, very much fun. I was also deeply impressed that someone (
gem_63 I think) noticed I'd dyed my hair. I can safely say that you guys spotted it faster than my brother!In particular, the progressive games were very much fun (I've discovered I'm crap at anything that requires digital dexterity, excellent at guessing the weight of objects just from heafting them and dubious at balloon sculpting...), as were the bedtime drabbles. There were some truly lovely ones, some truly hysterical ones...
Joey stared at the page before her. She wanted to write but, for once, her muse had deserted her. That was the problem with being a writer; everyone expected you to be able to come up with something whenever they wanted you to, and sometimes, inspiration refused to cooperate.
What was particularly annoying about this batch of writer's block, however, was the time limit. She had promised the triplets a new story when they came home from their first term as 'big' school girls (boarders in anyone else's language), but with the great day approaching she was drawing a rapid, big, fat blank on just what she could write.
She didn't want to write them a school story because, after all, they would have just completed a term at school. She didn't want to write a guiding story because most of the themes of that movement were beyond the triplets just yet. She didn't want to write them a story about a princess being rescued or any other similar sort of story because that would only please Con and this story had to please all three. Nor did she want to reuse any of the tales she'd told to any of her nieces and nephews because this story was supposed to be written just for Len, Con and Margot.
So she was stuck.
For a whole morning, Joey stared at the page, willing inspiration to hit, but her mind remained obstinately blank – and consequently, so did the page. The only ideas that occurred to her were either wildly inappropriate or astoundingly trite.
Finally, in disgust – and knowing that she still had a few days in which to conjure up some magic for her three eldest children – Joey dropped her pen back onto her desk and stood up. She stretched and slowly meandered through the house. Anna had taken Stephen and Charles out for the morning, taking advantage of the unexpectedly fine weather to allow the two boys a chance to run off their excess energy, which made the place seem inordinately big.
She reached the kitchen, intending to make herself a pot of tea, when her gaze fell on a pile of laundry that Anna had been airing on the great wooden clotheshorse. On the top of the pile were three of Jack's socks and it brought back the memory of a conversation from earlier in the week.
"I am sure," Anna had said thoughtfully, "that Dr Jack is developing a third foot."
Joey had goggled a little at this statement from so matter-of-fact a person as Anna. "What ever can you mean?" she finally enquired.
"What I say," Anna had answered, and produced three of Dr Jack's socks, not one single one of which matched. "Either he is developing a third foot, or something is eating his socks on laundry day."
Seeing the trio of socks now, Joey was suddenly moved to wonder what difficulties a centipede might face, should that centipede have socks…
Joey raced back to her study in a manner more fitting of someone a bare quarter of her age. She took up her seat once more, picked up her pen and wrote the title at the top of the page that only moments earlier had seemed to be mocking her. Then, not wasting any time, she began: Hundred Legs was a centipede…
It's hard to be a Maynard when you're the normal one. There's Len and Steve, the responsible ones. There's Mike and Margot, the naughty ones. Con and Felicity, they're the creative ones. Phil's the delicate one; Charles is the quiet one; Geoff and Felix are the sports mad ones.
And then there's me. Normal me.
Margot, Charles, Len and Steve got the lions share of intelligence; Con, Mike, Fliss and Phil work hard; Felix and Geoff both put their energy into their sports, content to skull along mid-form as long they're in the form team for this or the school team for that.
And then there's me. Normal me.
Len got a first from Oxford for modern languages. Con got an upper second from Oxford for English – and has her second book of poetry coming out in a week or so. Margot qualified top of her class and is off in the jungle of South America, working as a medical missionary. Steve's just finished his degree – an engineering degree from 'only' a polytechnic in Manchester, but he's got a first all the same and a guaranteed job working for Rolls Royce, designing engines for aeroplanes. Charles is doing theology at Cambridge – he's bound to get a first, too. Mike goes to Dartmouth in a year's time – I don't know how well he'll do there, but he's sure to excel. Fliss is aiming high too; though her sights are set on the Julliard school in New York, though ballet is her main passion, she's too keen on acting and singing to just focus on that. Felix plans to go in for law. Geoff and Phil are too young to have plans yet, but whatever they choose, you can bet they'll exceed any expectations.
And then there's me. Normal me.
I don't have any of those lofty ambitions. I don't excel at work; I don't shine on the hockey pitch or the lacrosse field. My voice is thin and reedy and I couldn't dance if you paid me! I won't go on to university; I won't write my first novel before I'm twenty. I won't do all of those things. I'm just average. Strictly average and one hundred percent normal, that's me.
And some days, that gets to me. Some days, I think I must be such a let down amongst my brilliant siblings. The one who'll never achieve the bright lights. Some days, I wonder just why it is that I am so normal compared to everyone else.
And sometimes, I know. "You're my touchstone," Fliss says. "You're so calm and so collected; I know I can talk to you about anything and you'll listen and help me straighten my thoughts out." And at some time or another, they've all said that to me. I'm the person the turn to for the things that they can't confide in our parents. I'm the one who knows all their hopes and fears.
I'll never be extraordinary; I'll always be the regular one who doesn't stand out in a crowd. But that doesn't mean I don't have a place in the family. Perhaps, I'm the most important one out of all eleven of us. I'm the one who listens.
At least I wasn't depresso gal again!
(no subject)
Date: 2005-02-28 11:57 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-02-28 02:13 pm (UTC)Those drabbles were lovely, although it took me a while to figure out who the narrator was in the second one! (It was Cecil, right???)