Life, interrupted

On being 'unfinished'

My Bank Holiday Weekend

It is a ‘Bank Holiday’ weekend here in the UK. One of those times that never meant anything to me in my years as a shift working air traffic controller, except having to find childcare at triple rates. I yearned to live in a family existence where we all had ‘four days off’ together, for no reason. Time at home, not travelling, just to rest, frolic in the sunshine, perhaps take a picnic to the beach or queue up at DIY stores with the other fifty million people who suddenly felt an alien compulsion for home improvement.

Photo by Roselyn Tirado on Unsplash

In my current existence as a writer, I can take a ‘Bank Holiday’ weekend any time I choose. I can set aside four days whenever I feel like it, although clearly I never do. But this weekend, my husband (a shift working fire-fighter) also has four days off which fall over the natural Bank Holiday weekend. That is a rarity. That makes it extra special.

Taz and Fiver have had an extraordinarily high pressure few weeks - a GCSE, a driving test, a GB gymnastics training camp, college portfolios due etc… so for them, this has been their mini-nirvana on the horizon.

I had such plans for this week in prep for The Weekend. I would get up to date on my work with the brilliant

Sarah Fay

cohort, revisit inspirational interviews and discussions from the Queen of Substack sparkle

Claire Venus

. Revisit my home page and brand, re-categorise myself on here, get set for soulful growth and pull myself out of a self-perceived Substack stagnation. I would finish my tea studies in preparation for my (twice self-postponed) tea sommelier exams so I can really kick start a flow of inspired and gorgeous writing to capture the next ‘book deal’ for my second book ‘Little Tufts of Tea’.

I would be a semi-domestic Goddess and have all the laundry done and the house clean-ish so we didn’t spend our magic ‘Bank Holiday’ weekend on domestics, freeing us for Waltons-like activity of family picnics and memory making. Trips to the seaside and ice-cream. (Not entirely sure I why was envisaging a Bank Holiday Weekend from the 1950s with young children when it is 2024 and I have teenagers…).

I would have four Substack articles written in advance and actually scheduled. The first to pop out at what I have defined as the ‘sweet spot’ of 0700 on a Sunday morning, when I get the most readers as people allow themselves the luxury of lazy moments scrolling in bed that are denied to selves throughout the working week. All packaged in advance and tied up with a bow, allowing me four days of family freedom. I would have my ‘author questionnaire’ finally finished for my publishers, along with my bio and chosen head shot to go inside the cover of my book, Breaking Waves. In a week where I had my ‘back of book blurb’ and cover design finalised - I should feel, elated, right? Inspired, you might say. I would clean my favourite trainers - my white Converse which have become brown through English ‘springtime’ mud. I might even make a batch of ginger shots for the week ahead and do a couple of 5km runs, although let’s not get carried away.

Perhaps my desperation to break out of writerly and life stagnation would prompt me to join the 50 million at the DIY store and repaint my bedroom walls as after 3.5 years of living in this house the smell of ‘old people’ still oozes from every pore of the floor and walls. Perhaps the sweetly acerbic chemical smell of paint would bring the much longed for relief to my nostrils.

So what actually happened?

Life, Interrupted

In the week leading up to the Bank Holiday weekend, allow me to present you with a small snippet of what my life ‘actually’ looks like. In my actual life, I am not a writer, or someone with work to do. I am not someone with their own desires and deadlines. I am ‘Baymax’, the cuddly, gentle, caring, compassionate and soft ‘helper robot’ from one of my favourite Disney films ‘Big Hero 6’. I am a receptacle, on receive mode. Transmit muted. This is life as Baymax - although I secretly love it, just don’t tell my family.

My responses in italics (some in my head, some out loud - interpret as you wish)

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Snapchat from school: Mum I hate French [aah, j’aime ca]

Snapchat from school: Mum, you’re so annoying [oui, je sais]

Phone call from work: Hi mum, I’m on my lunch break. *walks me through purchase of Sainsbury’s meal deal* [not really listening]

Phone call from town: Mum, can you send me a tenner? [done]

In person from sofa: Mum, what’s the time? [3.50pm]

Snapchat from sofa: LOVE YOU [multiple heart emojis]

Snapchat from bedroom: silly face [silly face back]

Phone call from school: Mum have you seen the school trip notice? Please can you get me on it? [argh, doing it now]

In person: Mum can we do a driving lesson? [grab your keys]

In person: Mum can you help with with my maths? [give me an hour - what’s the topic?]

Phone call from school: *sobbing so much she can hardly speak* I HATE FRENCH [please don’t call me crying unintelligibly unless someone is actually hurt. I thought you were injured]

In person: Love you, Mum [love you too]

Instagram message: ‘sausage dog’ reel [heart emoji]

In person: Mum, have you done my timesheet for work? [opens up Excel]

Snapchat: Mama, possiamo fare un po' di italiano? [si certo. Quando?]

In person: Mum, how do you spell ‘exercise’? [e.x.e.r.c.i.s.e]

In person: Mum, how do you spell ‘defibrillator’? [ffs you literally have a phone and a laptop in front of you. Look it up. I’m writing.]

In person: Mum, can I get a cartilage piercing? [go away]

Snapchat from sofa: Mum did you buy celery for my food tech this week? [look in the fridge]

Snapchat from sofa: Mum do we have eggs? [I refer the right honourable child to the previous answer]

Instagram message: ‘how much I love my mum’ reel [‘how much I love my daughter’ reel back]

In person: Mum what’s the time? [OMG look at your phone, or the cooker, or the clock on the wall literally in front of you.]

In person: Mum, can we do a driving lesson? [yes…]

Snapchat from school: Mum, my friends are so annoying [word]

Snapchat from school: Mum, I actually hate French [I will help you with it]

Snapchat from college: Mum, could you pick me up…and maybe do a driving lesson on the way home [argh…not enough hours…]

In person: Mum, what’s the time? [are you actually joking]

In person: Mum, can I take hayfever tablets at the same time as my other meds? [I don’t know, I’d need to read the leaflet. I believe you can read.]

Snapchat from bedroom: avocado face [avocado face back]

In person: Mum, I’ve thrown away the box - do you think I can take cetirizine on top of xxx drugs? [I’m not a pharmacist.]

Snapchat from college: Mum, can we book my Uni open days? [yes, I will pull some extra days of the week out of my backside]

Snapchat from school: sorry Mum. Love you. I just really don’t like French. [love you too. dw, we will sort it.]

In person: Mum, how do you spell…. [glare]

[all aside from the ‘unseen’ life admin - the insurance, the payments, the medical forms, the chasing of waitlists, the travel and accommodation for gymnastics competitions, Team GB registrations, work experience arrangements, meter readings, car service, life…]

Cue mini explosion and rant of ‘I CAN’T DO IT ALL!!!’

Enter husband.

Himself: Jesus Em, you’re too available

Me: Agree. I’m overloaded. Please take these 2 tasks off me:

-              Fiver’s car insurance

-              Trains to Newcastle for British Championships

Himself: when are the British Championships? [we have a shared calendar, look it up (although I know it’s 28 July)]

Himself: when do we come back? [seriously?]

Himself: What’s [daughter’s] car registration number? [OMG look out the window. Her car is just there. (although I know it’s XXX XXXX)]

In person: Mum, what’s the time? [not acknowledging question]

Himself: what’s [daughter’s] phone number? [LOOK IT UP!!! Although I know it’s xxx xxx xxxx]

Himself: what’s her date of birth again? [glare]

Himself: why are you getting so crabby? If you know the answers, why can’t I ask you?

Ok. How are you any different to the girls? How is this any different? I am not sitting here like Baymax as a purely caring receptacle for all of your incessant questions. If I need to answer everything I might as well do it myself.

Himself: But you know the answers, so why can’t I ask you?

and then at the end of it all…

Himself: So what have you done with yourself today anyway? Edvard Munch Scream Face

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I actually stop to ponder this. Why am I so crabby about being asked questions I know the answer to? On the face of it, it seems a fair question, but I am not actually Baymax, and the reliance on me knowing all the answers all of the time just perpetuates the cycle. I want to not know the answers, I want to have forgotten some of the information I hold. I want to shed, to reduce, to let go.

I want to NOT know what time it is.

I want a life, uninterrupted. Just sometimes.

Everything is unfinished

So as I enter the Bank Holiday weekend, I have done absolutely none of the things I had planned, but that’s ok - I allow myself two days of work on Friday and Saturday, then we can have Sunday and Monday to frolic in the 1950s. That should work, right?

But then, on Friday, another life interruption occurred, and one that was much more unexpected. Something quite stressful happened on Friday morning. I actually can’t bring myself to talk about it, but suffice it to say no one is hurt and in the scheme of life it’s very small, but it impacted me quite deeply. It shook my confidence and belief in myself in a fundamental way. So much so, that on Friday afternoon I couldn’t do anything. I sat on my sofa catatonic and watched 4 episodes of ‘True Detective’ back to back. Watching TV in the daytime is something I never do, but I wasn’t able to do anything productive. I finally roused myself and managed to put my Converse and my ‘happy shoes’ that I bought in New York on a trainer cycle in the wash, and they came out looking dirtier than when they went in.

My feelings of incompetence and inadequacy spilled into Saturday. I took myself to my place of sanctuary, to the lake where I swim. I was held by friends and cried into their arms. I took my self-doubt and plunged it into the water. I managed to leave some of it behind.

My head still not able to be ‘productive’ in a creative way, I then ventured with Himself to the DIY store. I knew that doing something practical - sorting out my bedroom drawers, ordering and decluttering, cleaning and painting would play out the clumsy analogy of cleaning and polishing my muddy brain. I sent my daughters Snapchats of paint samples and then enlisted their time and help - throwing out ancient make-up and pots of gloopy nail varnish. Advising me with helpful harshness on which clothes to keep and which to discard. Adorning the wall with paint samples and choosing between ‘Misty Morning’ and ‘Mint Macaroon’. I received a message that my Godmother had died. A wonderful woman who I hadn’t seen much of in the last few decades but who had been a shiny happy part of my childhood so I felt sad without feeling bereft. A pause to chat to the girls about her, to let them know some of our story.

Bags of recycling filling up pleasingly. Then allowing myself to stop, to watch TV again. To sit with Himself without us being on our phones. To have a glass of wine and watch four episodes of ‘Race Across the World’. Heartwarming TV at its best.

Sunday morning

And so I arrive at Sunday. No Substack was published at 7am this morning. Nothing is written or scheduled. I have not done one sentence on my second book or any of my Substack cohort programmes. The laundry is not done, my trainers are still outside as perhaps the intermittent yet alarmingly intense rain might actually help and I cannot face hand-scrubbing them. The girls are asleep and are going out with their friends later because they are teenagers and not young children from the 1950s. My bedroom is in utter chaos in mid-declutter and furniture move, yet something in me has gently shifted.

I am here, writing. This is not what I intended to write…but it rarely is.

I might make some progress on some of those other things, but I might not. This morning Himself and I intentionally watched a fifth episode of ‘Race Across the World’ whilst we ate breakfast and dreamed of travel, and laughed, and connected. We reminisced about areas we had visited in Thailand which were featured on the show. I remembered how lucky I am, and spoke to him about how I’m struggling with how I feel at the moment. About how I don’t want to feel so horribly underconfident in myself, about how I want to find my peace, and that I am generally really happy but my brain can be dark. About how I don’t really mind answering all the questions, but sometimes it would be nice not to. How I’d like to carry just a little bit less but I don’t know how to let go. How I want to be less scrambled. How I wish someone would make my trainers white again.

He knows. He’s a good man.

And then I went and stood barefoot in the rain and came in and wrote this, because this is what Bank Holidays actually look like in the UK.

And I will continue to try and accept that lots will remain unfinished, and that I will always live a life, interrupted, and that it’s ok. And I will try to remember all the things I have to be grateful for, even when my brain is in conflict with itself.

And if you ask me what time it is, I might even answer.

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How is your weekend shaping up? What expectations do you place on ‘holiday’ weekends? Where do you go to find sanctuary when things become overwhelming or you need a brain ‘shift’?

I’d love to hear from you, wherever you are in the world. I wish you peace.

As always,

Love & lemons 💕🍋

Em xx