Dear sisters,
I have returned from my annual visit to the land of America, with a new collection of snapshots.
Meanwhile at the homefront:
Justin Bieber has been reduced by Jip, from greatness to barely worthy of a six-year-old girl’s attention, in just four months. Rosie still proudly wears her T-shirt with his likeness, despite her brothers mocking, and declares her love, although her marriage plans to JB have been cancelled. She is realistic, she says. When she is grown, he will be old.
Jip, instead, is learning the lyrics to Californication by the Red Hot Chili peppers and sings the chorus “Hard core soft porn” to heart’s content; this is in preparation for his first guitar lesson next week. He announced he is a fan of rock music in general, when asked by the music teacher what he would like to play.
Californication-singing is the result of my attempt to broaden my son’s musical rock horizons, with a YouTube browsing session. He was stuck at Queen, citing “Bicycle race” and “We are the champions” as favorites. Nothing wrong with Freddie of course, but there are others, too.
School is back in full swing with hockey, swimming, fencing and lice alerts during the week. There is a time sucking quality to it all. One week, woosh gone, second week, woosh, gone. On Monday I am sucked into the school vortex and on Friday afternoon I am spat out again for a brief reprise. Mandarins are back in the stores, next to the pepernoten, which means it is nearly Christmas.
I am back to the writing and the struggle. Should it be this hard?
I am giving myself a deadline to sort it out.
If I haven’t found my way by Christmas, which is really damn close, I shall look for a job once more, involving writing contracts rather than prose.
So, back to the drawing board.
S1
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