An Explanation

I know I’ve been a bit quiet lately on the blogging front – I trust my hordes of devoted readers who check this site several times a day have managed to find a suitable substitute to console them in their empty hours, and stave off morbid contemplations of joining the Foreign Legion. You might be pleased to hear that I’ve been busy negotiating the unexpectedly generous publishing contract for my first novel which I’ve finally finished, and consulting with an architect to build a more spacious and better-constructed house for my growing family.

I’d be pleased to hear that too, if it were true. What’s really been commanding all my time and energy is my ongoing performance in a strange play called Lonie Polony and the Seven Dwarfs. It’s rather an avant-garde adaptation of the Disney movie, with a large chunk of Herman’s Head thrown in. There are no capering, patronising caricatures of short-statured men in my version; instead, the dwarfs are actually aspects of my own character which jostle and compete for dominance in a struggle destined to continue for several more weeks until the show’s run comes to its natural end and I reprise my role in Alien: It Burst From My Uterus.

There’s Happy, first to appear and ever-present, but frequently held down and red-bellied by his rowdier, more demanding brothers. There’s Sneezy, who exploits my lowered immunity and necessary abstinence from most medications to breathe in my face as often as possible, bringing with him the varied delights of hay fever and general unwellness. Bashful insisted that for the sake of accuracy, his name should be changed to Taciturn. He often appears in the company of Sleepy, Dopey and Grumpy, that unconquerable triad who, months ago, warned my husband to “stay off our turf, mofo!” before laughing at the vulgar literalness of their joke, and remaining in the ascendancy ever since.

And don’t forget Doc! He is the only dwarf incarnate in this production, and appears right at the end, in the labour ward scene. Played by a different actor every night (the script is very strict on this point), he nevertheless unfailingly strolls into the room just in time to deliver the placenta before pocketing his $3,000 fee.

What I’m trying to say, in my rather long-winded way, is this: expect fewer posts than ever – I’m trying to sleep. Expect dopier writing. Expect more sickness-induced self-pity. Expect more whining and complaining in general. You have been warned, so please, no chiding me for my bad attitude, or Grumpy and his boys will be around to red-belly YOU.