If anyone wonders if my creative juices are still flowing, you’d only need to sneak in on some of the conversations I have with my girlfriend. I say “conversations,” but really these are long, surreal rambles I launch at her, which she finds amusing.
Me: Would you prefer I court you in the old English way? I need to get a cool steampunk pocketwatch… That way, while we’re on a strolle, I could pull it out and say, “Hmm. My dear, it is half past seven. It’s mighty late and it will be quite chill soon. Shall I escort you home?”
And you’ll say, “Why Reginald, that’s a capital idea!”
And we’ll walk home and I’ll bid you good night and bow and gently kiss your hand, and you’ll scurry up to your room and I’ll look up to your window and you’ll flick on the light and lean out and blow me a kiss. And then I’ll walk with my cane and top hat down the snowy street whistling.
Me: Good. It’s settled.
I have this fear that you’ve copied every single bizarre fit of imagination I’ve had with you in the chat or on Skype or whatever and that you’ll one day publish them as part of your memoirs.
The book will be called: In the Shadow of Greatness — Life as the Wife of a Mad Literary Genius.
Her: Ha, that’s a good idea!
Me: Or perhaps the title would be: The Anti-Teakettle Diaries: How One Woman Survived an Eccentric Writer for 75 Years. It’d be an instant hit.
But you’re the reclusive type, so you’d refuse the call from Oprah to be on her show.
And reporters from The Guardian and some new paper called The Flickerfist Quarterly will pile outside our door hoping to catch a glimpse of you on your way to work, perhaps for a quote.
But you’ll be old, so they’ll look at you with respect and fear, because nobody knows what an old person will do. And you’ll scurry off to your little shop, called Tinkers and Pages Magical Emporium of Tinker Toys and Books.
Me: You won’t make any money at the shop. Mostly, you just sit around winding up the little toys and giggling. And once in a while, a kid will come up with his parent and buy some cool thing, like a wind-up pheasant pirate or a rotating fobblefig. And then you’ll go home, walking as you usually do with your little cane, and the reporters will be there, as if they’ve never left, waiting to take more pictures.
And you’ll never say a word. Only walk inside, put on the kettle for your hot cocoa, and read a book, which you’ll forget about when you fall asleep in your chair with old BBC re-runs on the tele.
Somewhere in the basement is me. Trapped in a giant typewriter.
I should put all that in a blog post…
Her: You should.
And here we are. With a blog post…