A Bucket of One’s Own
One of my favourite books (essay really, but who cares) is Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own. It’s a nice blueprint for people who want a quiet life of reading, writing, wandering about London and stopping to rest into the quiet cool of the British Museum (as it was then, certainly not quiet now, it’s bloody swamped in there these days). So I was totally suckered by this little necklace on Etsy. The truth is it’s very flimsy/light, I’ve seen the little book lockets for pennies on eBay, and I could have made the tiny little cover myself, but like most things on Etsy, being capable doesn’t equate to being bothered.
I find bookish knick-knacks comforting, like my super-tasteful Brontë Parsonage key ring featuring wildflower miniatures painted by Charlotte. It reminds me of happier places and times, and provides escape as I go about faceless, soul-draining activities in a cold indifferent world. Or, words to that effect.
And I’ve had little reading time in which to retreat recently as my daughter had golf ball-sized tonsils removed, and while she’s delighted she can breathe clearly again, she had a reaction to the general anaesthetic that was so dramatic it was practically a modern art installation. It’s like having a projectile-vomity baby, but one the size of a nineteen year-old with a neck swelled up like Jabba the Hutt. However, the worst is over and she is home, and no longer painting the walls and floors of the hospital, Exorcist-style. She can’t speak properly yet so has a loud buzzer app on her phone to let me know she needs help. It sounds like something from a quiz show, so much so developed a Pavlovian expectation of a full sick bucket every time someone answers a question on ‘The Chase’.