It’s almost four months now since the dramatic collapse of my back during an orchestral rehearsal. I was beginning to enjoy my life as a lady of leisure, but now the panic is setting in. I’m about to embark on a post graduate course in journalism and as the start date approaches I can’t help wondering why I didn’t chose something easier.
I’ve recently been reading the autobiographical books of several writers, notably Jeffrey Bernard and Alan Bennett. Whilst I cannot imagine two more different personalities, they have one thing in common. Neither of them seems to enjoy writing. I think I’m beginning to understand why. All my good feelings about writing for a living stem from the last article I successfully finished and sold. Now I’m attempting to begin a new piece, this time with the added pressure of it being commissioned so I can’t duck out, I find myself wondering whether I’m making a terrible mistake. It seems every bit as difficult as playing the violin ever did. A bit like practising, I find I have to go over the same thing ad infinitum until it finally comes right, only to come back to it the next day and find it’s not finished at all. There’s always the same option as is open to the freelance musician- to fudge my way through missing out the difficult bits- but that doesn’t suit my perfectionist nature. The question I’m left pondering is this; does something always become hard when it starts to matter? Is it indeed true, as Jeffrey Bernard quotes Francis Bacon as saying, that the only way to get through life is to regard almost everything as being utterly unimportant? Having said that, I went to see the Bacon exhibition at the Tate just after Christmas and I’ve never seen such an unpleasant collection of paintings in my life, so perhaps not.
Anyway, on the bright side, my back is getting better, though I’m not so sure about my stomach. Apparently my tissues are not good quality. I’m not quite sure how this came about. Maybe my gut is failing to digest the fillet steaks, Pol Roger and Marks and Spencer beef wellington I feed it, which considering how much luxury I deprive myself of to look after the damn thing is remarkably inconsiderate. I’m constantly swallowing homeopathic remedies too. Though I’m not convinced they contain anything more than sugar and pixie farts they must be doing something or I wouldn’t be paying so much for them.
I’ve just come back from seeing my cranial osteopath. It’s an odd experience but it seems to work. She just holds on to my head for ages and I can feel my body willing itself to relax. She says the swimming’s helping, though I didn’t manage to go at all over Christmas, not through lack of inclination but because the swimming pool in Morpeth where I spent the holiday was damaged by flooding last year. I do so hope nobody got wet.
I’m starting Pilates next week too. I’ve found an instructor who’ll come to my house. I’m pretty happy about that. I always thought only people like Madonna could afford such luxury, but when you have no money it’s amazing what you can stretch to.
On that premise and with no ideas I should be on the verge of a fantastic article.
