Sunday, March 7, 2021

MARCH 2021

To keep up to date scroll back to the first post, January 2021

March 2021

March 30th

Here we are, just over a day away from April.
I've had a really busy week, looking at flats with my eldest son and trying to galvanise my husband, Lucas, into action. 
As with government guidelines, he's had to close his vintage clothing and collectibles shop, and that's severely impaired his mobility, in that, his backside has become fused tot he sofa. 
He's sitting here, as I write, watching repeats of Police, Camera, Action, because Bangers for Cash has finished and this is the replacement afternoon reality fodder. 
Only yesterday, I pointed out, in rather a shouty way, that the shop downstairs has become squalid with neglect. 
In the mornings he wanders down to check his emails, look at vintage cars on eBay, listens to Pop Master on radio 2 and smokes a couple of rollups (no, that is our term for grass). Then he wanders upstairs for lunch and that's that for the day.
The rest of the town is abuzz with activity. The businesses that have managed to survive the year of Covid are busy sprucing up their shopfronts and interiors in reediness for the big day, April 12th, when we can one again throw open our shop doors to the marauding hordes. 
Unfortunately, Lucas has lost his mojo (code for, having become a lazy bastard), and the inch thick layer of dust and curtains of cobwebs are testament to a year of complete neglect.
The ever increasing population of arachnids are the only problem either, two (possibly stray, though I'm not convinced, they look quite fat) cats have moved in. 
The ground floor levels broken brass letter flap has become their point of entry. I wouldn't have thought that they'd be able to squeeze through this fairly narrow slot if I hadn't seen it for myself. 
Caterpillar Cat's food is in the back area where she lives and that, as well as a dry roof over their heads, is obviously the main attraction. 
Unfortunately, in a bid for squatters rights they've been marking the territory with pee.
What to do?! I know, fix the letterbox!
The flat hunting with my son has been fraught with highs and lows. The highs... yes, lovely flat, I'll have it, the lows... someone else has just gazumped you with an offer of cash. The housing market's become a feeding frenzy as the wealthier city dwellers who can now work remotely from home are all flocking, like hungry gulls, to these rugged shores.
Anyway, we're viewing two flats this afternoon even though the chances of them still being available since their listing two days ago is fairly unlikely, someone's probably already made a cash claim after taking a quick online virtual tour.
In between property hunting, nagging my husband and having to lay down and recover from it all, I have managed to move ahead with the new book.
Alopecia update... the rubbing in and swallowing of oil of primrose has yet to reap any obvious benefits, but it's early days, stay with me.

March 20th

Another week passes and we're moving closer to the end of lockdown three. 
Emotionally, I have no idea how I feel about the imminent release from semi-house arrest.
I guess it will be good to wander the streets again with an enhanced sense of freedom.
However, living in a popular seaside resort mean that, in the next few months, the eerie emptiness of our town centre will shift to holiday mode overflow.
Reportedly, when the whistle is finally blown and mobility restrictions lifted, all roads that lead to Cornwall will be teaming with holiday makers keen to invade this fair county of ours for the summer season.
All great for business, yes, and after all, Poldark land depends on this influx of cash (those coal mines closed long ago, and there's far less fish in the sea).
It's just that the shift in population, from one extreme to the other, tends to trigger a certain level of mass anxiety among the locals, including me.
Never mind, I'm sure we'll all adapt, and when the arrival of Autumn calls time on extracurricular activities, we can re-batten those hatches and relish the short dark days of winter, when no one goes out anyway, regardless of whether there's a lockdown in place.


I have been writing, and it's going well, which is a good feeling. 
Forget that, you might say, how about the hair?
Well, if you've been following the story, you'll know that in last weeks entry I'd decided to bin the overpriced waste of time hair regaining tonic (which it didn't), and start messaging oil of primrose into my scalp (just before bedtime), instead.
A single week is too short a time for any conclusive report, but I do feel fairly optimistic. So, let's see how it goes.


March 12th

Well, it's been a good week for writing. The word count on my new novel's totting up and I'm fairly happy with the re-reads. 
The protagonist has taken over the story and I like where she's going. 
This is how I always write, with a basic outline of an idea in mind, then I send the main character off in a certain direction, and take it from there. I'm in a happy and exciting place with this story now, unexpected twists and turns are writing themselves in all over the place.
Other news, I've given up on using Regaine for the purposes of regaining some of the hair loss. If anything, I think its application has actually exacerbated the situation.
Instead, and not because of anything I've read or heard, no, just on a fancy, to apply oil of primrose to the noticeably barren areas of my scalp. I just have an instinctive feeling  that primrose oil might help, and if not, I have nothing more to lose, except hair, which is overrated anyway. I'll let you know the verdict in a month or so.

UPDATE Since writing this, I've found time to read some research on oil of primrose and any possible benefits in taking it. My intuition seems to have some foundation. Oil of primrose may help aid hair growth and there's also a list of other interesting minor ailments it might help.

It's my mothers 83rd Birthday tomorrow and as she isn't up for anything too wild, I gave her the option of choosing a DVD she might want to watch in the afternoon (with a bottle of Prosecco of course). So, I've bought a copy of, On The Waterfront, starring Marlon Brando, as requested. My eldest sister, Dawn, and my husband, Lucas, will be watching it as well, and we will eat cake. Dawn loves to bake and has promised to provide the necessary confection. 
Mum was worried she'd have to lay on some kind of spread, but I told her not to, it's going to be a wine and cake kind of afternoon, I said, that's all we need (maybe some gin and tonic as well, but not too much).
What could be better than that!
The rest of our large family clan live too far away and have planned an Easter invasion. 
I've lost track of the Covid rules, but those in the room will have all been vaccinated, so I'm sure it's fine.
Oh, one more thing, the new laptop seems to have a personality disorder and refused to behave. There could be software issues, which I may be able to fix, so I'll bear with it for now.

March 7th


So, here we are, March already, and it looks as if we're on the road out of Covid.
Yes, I have been working on my new novel and, yes, distractions have also hampered progress. 
The battery in my laptop reached the end of its serviceable life. It announced its suicidal thoughts by swelling to a size that warped the keyboard and the letter K pinged off. 
That's what they do, the laptop batteries, they swell, so if this happens to you, then you're going to need to carefully remove the battery and buy another, or, as I have done, use its demise as an excuse to buy a shiny brand new laptop.
For this reason, I've squandered much of the last few days uploading sites and searching for clues to passwords now forgotten. Yes, I know there are really sensible ways of storing and keeping tabs on vital info (in 'clouds' and the such like), I just don't use them, and no, there is no logical reasoning behind my madness, perhaps its just the maverick in me! 
I prefer to flay around searching through old paperwork for scrawled snippets of arbitrary clues that might lead on to the lands that time and intelligence forgot. 
Anyway, needless to say, I've been denied access all over the place and it's pretty annoying.
Apart from that, and fed up with my mother nagging on and on about how pale I look, I went to the chemist and bought a tube of fake tan. Now I'm orange, and if I was to go all out and dye my hair green, I'd look like a carrot.
For those following my trials and tribulations with Alopecia, I'll give you an update on how well the Regaine hair revival tonic is working... it's not. After two weeks of usage (and in strict accordance with printed instruction), my hair is thinner than ever.
Oh well, as that Doris Day sang in some daft old movie, ce sera sera. 
I should be, and I am, grateful for what I have... worse things happen at sea... and all that.
The forecast for next week is fairly cold and dull, so, excellent, great writing weather. I'll be knuckling down and moving on to the first draft of chapter six.

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