Spluckens. It's not a word or at least I don't think it is but it feels right, it suits the mood. There, I will write it again. Spluckens. It's supposed to be fun this writing thing. This putting down of words on paper. Spluckens.
Imagine being in a room full of Spluckens. Okay. You must think I am crazy. Lost the plot. Too much fun over the holiday has resulted in Mary P. Wilkinson losing her mind. Fine. Words. That must explain everything. But tonight I happen to like it. Tumbling into crazy words. Making words up. Spreckletentious.
Great. I am mad. I love it. I can't sleep. I told H to touch my back. It always soothes but it didn't work tonight. I went out earlier on. To a house. A house full of high-heeled, shiny shod women talking about nothing. I wanted to shout something there and then. Out loud. But of course I remained silent. I drank my glass of wine, texted H to come get me, threw on my terribly amazing charity shop Alpaca coat and left.
I came home and drank a double whiskey. I hugged my sons. I told Small Dog she was the greatest woman I knew. I told H he makes the best tacos that ever existed. I threw my arms out and danced a jig. I said Spluckens. I said to hell with second guessing my life as I had earlier on in the day. I said, I love it all. The mad, lonely, busy, gloomy, sunny, desperate, loss for words, convoluted, fabulous, dizzying, puzzling, itchy, raunchy, hilarious, splunken filled days that I live. I wanted to scream. And H put up with me. He stood in the kitchen and laughed at my mini drama and I wanted to hug him too and twirl him around and run out into the rain and the dark with him but he sensibly suggested we go to bed and I did but oops too much swirling around can make you wake up and want to throw words into the ether and grab them back again like a child trying to catch bubbles.
Impossible. Here I am. Close to midnight making up words that mean nothing. But still, they must count for something. I would much prefer to make words up than to utter old words that mean nothing. So. For that, I have to say that spruckles and moglamia and yoqramba mean much more to me than a cackle of voices saying nothing but trying to make more noise than hagglers in a market in Marrakesh. I will tend to something closer to home from now on and all the tea in China will not move me from my world of strupendilicious, superterrific, excruciatinglyfabulous life that wasn't given half a glance until now that is. Far away fields are never greener and you cannot teach an old dog new tricks and I am certain Spluckens is a word and if it isn't, it is certainly one now.