Anyway the POINT is that I’ve got one. A Mallen streak. A big grey one at the front of my hairline. Possibly through the sheer stress of moving house. Or maybe because I’ve got a hitherto untapped streak of badness. ‘Or it could be that you’re really really old mummy,’ as The Girl pointed out the other day before going outside and doing a handstand in her knickers.
It could be. But then moving house is unbelievably stressful as well as time consuming. It’s not the actual physical business of moving your stuff from one location to another – it’s the getting of the mortgage, the realisation that although banks have no trouble squandering our money, when it comes to lending it, they are still firmly back in the 1950s, by which I mean they look at anyone who doesn’t have a 9 – 5 regular job with a solid income – with horror. And considering that jobs like this just don’t exist anymore and most of us are on contracts, and even more of us are self-employed, you would think that a tiny amount of flexibility would be called for. So although I had a pretty decent deposit, I still had to jump through more hoops than a circus dog and with the aid of a good mortgage broker. No wonder everywhere I look, people are renting.
I did find throwing stuff out very therapeutic though – even books. I always felt guilty about chucking out books, it has this Nazi esque connotation to it – the next step down from burning books. But I knew I was moving to a flat and many of my books felt connected to my past so I gave loads away, recycled the rest and only kept the books that
make me look intelligent I love and cherish.
So I’ve moved house and am now in that stage of finding out how things work (or don’t) while working on my next Radio 4 thing, a series. But I’m acutely aware that I’ve been neglecting my blog where I
moan and whinge constantly write about my fascinating life. So I’m back and Mallen Streak or not, I’m going to write a lot more from now on.