Christmas Attempted: Family down

Fuck.

I gotta stop playing Solitaire.

Another day rushes by. I set some unicorn-traps in the garden and then return to my new novel. It's about a serial killer - basically a demon, but without the wings and the european accent. I spend hours editing the description of the first victim's body, trying to find an alternative to "brain" in the thesaurus. "Brain" is far too funny a word. "Mind" is too abstract; "Cerebrum" too technical. Someone needs to invent a new word - someone clever.

So, after wracking my flurglebleister for inspiration I finally give up and get out of my chair. I then left hook a gnome before standing there in silence... pondering the trough into which I have fallen.

Okay, this is it. Bisto time. I pick up the phone.

First call - work. I speak to my boss and he informs me that I still have my job. He's lied his arse of for me and covered up my abuse of the system. God bless homosexuals - they have their uses. He then tells me what shifts I'm working over Christmas. Not good.

Second call -parents. I speak to my mother and explain my work situation. She proposes that we cancel Christmas and postpone it till Easter. I agree. Woot.

Third call - my auntie. I explain my family situation. She invites me to Christmas at her place. I accept and offer to bring cheesecake. Job done.

With those three phonecalls I am exorcised, weights lifted from my flurglebleister and inspiration reinjected. I leap back towards my laptop with ideas spewing from my lips and corroding nearby goblins.

Then the phone rings.

My friends Gina and Maria have invited me to the cinema. My inspiration evaporates. It seems I am part of a trio of sad artists with writer's block this night. We must convene to pool our self-contempt.

And so I spend the rest of the evening chuckling like a psychopath in the cinema. And as the credits roll I turn my phone back on and find a missed call from my friend Jo, who is also suffering from writer's block. In our self-contempt we neglected her. I arrange a meeting of the blocked quartet for tomorrow. And so my army grows. I picture all three of them, lusting after me and writing inferior fiction.

A good day.