Sorry everyone, wrote this months ago but am only getting around to posting it now....

In the 6 years she has lived at her current address, a potent combination of xenophobia, sloth, and largely inclement Scottish weather have combined to make Squirrel as unlikely to venture outside her front door for recreational purposes as she is to fit into her size 12 jeans ever again (or at least any time before 2009).  Squirrel has never used her washing line, or cleaned the outside of her windows and the state of her front garden has been a source of perpetual embarrassment to her. 

This week, tired from far too much work and far too little pacing herself, Squirrel decided to take the week off.  Coincidentally (but happily) a strong May sun began to beat down outside, and the communal back garden started to look decidedly more attractive than Squirrel's practice room.  When all was quiet and the children of the close were still at school, she tiptoed outside with a deck chair to make the most of the exceptional weather.  Slipping off her sandals she dug her toes into the cool, rather unkempt, grass.  She listened to the birds and smelt the astonishment of the warmed earth.  It was almost what might be described as blissful. ....

Unaccustomed to taking time off however, by day 2 of the good weather Squirrel was wracked with protestant guilt for dozing in the garden whilst Mr Squirrel went off to work.  Pregnant or not, she resolved to make herself useful.  The hour to address the disaster of the front garden had come, and Squirrel set about it with competitive verve.  She dug, raked and hoed her way through the flower-beds, piling the weeds into a defeated heap on the pathway.  She paused regularly to assess her progress, swig her alcohol free beer and poke gingerly at the pink patches on her shoulders.  Passers-by eyed her hideous maternity dress suspiciously and warned her not to over-do it.  Later, as she surveyed her handiwork and packed away her tools, Squirrel felt a curious sense of satisfaction.

The next day, the sun continued to shine and something even stranger occurred.  Long before she knew what she was doing, Squirrel found herself standing barefoot in the grass, pegging sheets out on her washing line, and sighing with uxorial contentment.  Mr Squirrel noted the developments upon his arrival home.  "You've done an absolutely brilliant job", he said, staring out the window. "It's really lovely to see the garden looking better and you've hung all the clothes on the washing line and stuff....".  He paused, shifted his weight slightly and turned to fix Squirrel with a steely gaze. "But the thing is…I need you to tell me what you have done with my wife." 

LRS is…..recommending Fairy Power Spray for the removal of errant fake tan

LRS is…..wondering if she was the reason her ex came out

LRS is…. sick of people adding her as a friend just because her husband isn't on facebook

LRS is…..missing her counsellor

LRS is…..worried about how much alcohol she has drunk over the past 10 years and whether it has done her any harm

LRS is…..wondering if it's true that putting haemorrhoid cream under your eyes makes the bags smaller

LRS is…..bored stiff of constantly wondering if she is pregnant now or will ever be again

LRS is…..thinking it has been weeks since she cleaned the loo

LRS is.....wishing she could delete half her facebook "friends"

LRS is…..astonished by the age of her underwear

The book is finished.  It was a little bit blah. 

Little Red Squirrel would like to apologise for her unreasonably long absence.  She has thought guiltily about writing almost daily, but truthfully, during the past month she simply hasn't been able to set aside the (considerable) time she needs in front of a computer to write anything which might conceivably be worth reading.  Having spent most of her twenties cycling in the wrong direction down the one way street of life, Squirrel is now finishing her second (and entirely different) course of postgraduate studies and December means the frenetic end of the Michelmas term at college.  It being the run up to Christmas, it also means that Squirrel ended up trying to squeeze in as much outside work as possible on top of her studies.  Free time has been at something of a premium.

Once term was finished (to her not inconsiderable relief) it was time to get on the road and start the annual circus that is the Squirrel family-visiting schedule.  Down to Cambridge they went on the 19^th to visit Mr Squirrel's family.  It was the same as ever.  Frozen grey blue skies filled with stars and the silhouettes of familiar colleges, fake Ye Olde Curiositie shops for the tourists, strange hats in the market stalls (she bought one at once), beggars in the doorways, buskers outside the town hall.  Squirrel felt her guts ache with the memory of who she had once been.  Naturally, none of her memories were remotely academic.  Cambridge reminded her only of adventure and misadventure. Where she had walked.  Where she had kissed.  Where she had fought. Where she had broken her favourite shoes (and almost her head) falling down drunk.  Who she had loved.  Who she had hurt.  She felt considerable shame and sadness.  Or maybe it was just the memory of considerable shame and sadness. 

Then to Ireland.  A large family is wont to have complex dynamics, and in Squirrel's case, an over-abundance of artistic temperaments makes for a noisy and often difficult environment.  The adults who operate and co-operate reasonably efficiently outside the family home seem to regress a full twenty years the moment they step within it.  There was no reason to suppose that this visit would be different, and indeed it was not.  If the quantity of luggage brought by each "child" for the festive season was enormous, the quantity of emotional baggage was even more impressive.  Plus ca change…

Returning home to Glasgow for Christmas was, in truth, something of a relief for Squirrel.   Her home looked seriously inviting and before she could stop to think she found herself going to work in the kitchen.  Putting her modesty aside, Squirrel has to admit that this year's culinary productions were something of a triumph.   Her complete disregard for the specificities of cookery books seems to have been tempered by her fondness for cookery programmes (and particularly for the charming Hugh Fearnley-Wittingstall) and everything went smoothly, inventively and deliciously. 

On reflection, this is something of a shock to Squirrel and presents her with some rather difficult issues.  On one level, she believes that women who cook regularly for their husbands are guilty of succumbing to a pattern of behaviour propagated by men which is but a small step away from complete female emasculation.  On another level, she really enjoys cooking and feels not only possessive of "her kitchen" but an unmistakable sense of pride in being able to make a tasty meal for the people she loves. 

Mr Squirrel is naturally delighted by and supportive of her flair for cookery.  Squirrel finds this deeply suspicious.  She thinks she had better keep an eye on things before she finds herself bleaching net curtains and ironing his underpants.

Yes, she knows. It has been far, far, too long.  But the reality is that thoughts don't transform themselves into prose by magic.  At least not for Squirrel.  Even the worst of her written efforts are squeezed out only after hours of wrinkle-inducing, cross-eyed concentration in her inexplicably chilly office, forced out like the last meagre splodge of toothpaste in the empty tube which Mr Squirrel left her when he went up north this week.  Sometimes there's just not time to write stuff down the way you want to write it.  Sometimes you have to do other things, like try to earn a living, or perhaps even spend some of your free time reading something someone else has written.

Squirrel has joined a book club of sorts.  Actually, it's not really a book club.  In all honesty, this "book club" could more accurately be described as a collection of women who occasionally like to leave their husbands at home and go out to gossip and drink wine, with the socially acceptable, and arguably even laudable, objective of broadening their mutual literary horizons.  At its inaugural meeting, the ladies agreed that they should begin by reading Little Women by Louise May Alcott.  Suffice to say, this is not a book which Squirrel would otherwise have chosen to read.  The ladies who had already read the book begged to be allowed the opportunity to read it again.  Tears twinkled in their eyes as they called to mind its touching moments of Victorian reserve in the face of strong emotion.  Wistful memories threatened to overwhelm them as they turned away from the conversation for just a moment, to recall the friends they had made and lost the last time they read the story.  Then, slowly, womanfully, they steeled themselves for fear of diluting their gin and tonics.

Squirrel was inspired, and ran off home to order her copy from Amazon.  The small paperback arrived within the week, giving her plenty of time to finish it before the next meeting.  With no small excitement, she inspected it.  She felt a tiny slump of disappointment as she perused its fragile cover and soft brown pages, which threatened to dissolve like wet recycled toilet roll.  The weedy offering was full of the small, tight, black print which often conceals the great literary masterpieces of bygone centuries and Squirrel wondered whether it was this dense text which was responsible for her consistent failure to read "proper" books, and which instead had propelled her towards the lighter end of the fiction market.  After all, over a glass of wine by candlelight in the bath, anything less than 12 points is far too small to read.  Certainly, the paperback was far too flimsy ever to survive her handbag.  Her fears were confirmed when after less than two days of attempting to read LW, she left it on a plane and worse, failed to notice for a further week.

During a brief sojourn in Aberdeen last week however, Squirrel came across a beautiful, (and beautifully handbag-proportioned), hardback version of the book, at a fraction of the cost she had paid for the paperback. She ran the slippery red ribbon marker through her fingers and stroked the waxy paper cover with her hand.  She may even have sniffed it.  This was indeed a book made for love.  Squirrel is now quietly optimistic that she will manage to finish LW before the next meeting of the Glasgow Ladies Book and Wine Club, hot water permitting.  It may be wrong to judge a book by its cover, but when you're not altogether sure about the contents, then let's face it, looks matter.

Squirrel saw Paddington Bear on the luggage reclaim rack in Malta airport.  After quite some time, he was plucked from his revolutions by a toothless, smiling and thoroughly naughty looking child.   Squirrel was reminded of a poem she once wrote in her youth, and which she is pleased (and somewhat surprised) to be able to recall, here for your entertainment.

Valentine II

If valentines were teddy bears,

Then I must seem a little forlorn.

But I know you don't mind that my leg's falling off,

And my ears seem a little too worn.

I was sewn and stuffed and packaged,

Mass produced in a big factory. 

I was shipped off and sold in a tacky toy store,

Then I hoped you'd take good care of me.

And for years we were always together,

Day and night, hand in paw, you and I,

I was thumped, I was bumped when we played all your games,

I was soaked with your tears when you cried.

Now I sit at the back of your cupboard,

But I don't mind the dust or the cold,

Because when life is hard, and you're lonely or scared,

I'm still the old bear that you hold.

...a tribute to one of the heroes of her previous post (John Smeaton).  Here are some quotes from the lips of the man himself.  By God did these make Squirrel laugh (as seen in facebook!)