In front of the hairy green and purple cushions we purchased on the ‘hairy cushion bender’ a couple of weeks ago, we stand snapping our fingers and waving our arms. Our general flailing takes place on the red rug that neither of us particularly like, but we decided upon due to its mutually despicable texture, whilst the Countdown theme tune fills the space around us. Sidney the curly bamboo plant on the book shelf looks at us with disgust as he continues to try to read about atomic annihilation and the suchlike. We are interrupting his daily ritual. Bamboo plants have this thing for nuclear war.
‘The creative process is hard,’ I’m yelling, ‘the creative process is hard!’. We snap our fingers harder as the time counts down and we jig vigorously in a little circle on the living room floor. The workers in the lingerie shop below us lean over the counter to their customers and cock their eyebrows upwards- that’s the kinda thing, y’know? All over your face.
I’m snapping my fingers and a thought is materialising. ‘I salivate… I salivate… I salivate… milkshake…’
And it’s there! But it’s all that I have. I can only salivate milkshake. The initial joy subsides into sheer disappointment. The tension is unbearable, so I go for a wee. I sit on the toilet and you sit on the step outside the door and we look at each other, clicking our fingers. I salivate milkshake. Coincidentally I wee Don Simon breakfast juice.
Back on the red rug we are snapping our fingers and I comment that I like how our house still smells like a holiday home and all of a sudden I am salivating milkshake for malnourished pensioners. Huzzah! We do a victory dance. The fog has cleared and the aeroplane of bizarre metaphorical yarns has landed.
I tell you that I can feel my teeth too much and you laugh. ‘The creative process is hard’, I yell, though it’s always worth it in the end.