Teen Son zoned in on me earlier, as he's wont to do every now and then. Usually when he wants some something. "What happened to that novel you were writing when we moved here, Mum?" He even remembered the title. "'Making Other Plans'" wasn't it?"
Oh Christ. "Erm," I dithered, wondering if I could get away with saying, "well actually, darling, it's with my agent and will be coming out at the end of the year," and somehow get it written and secure a publishing deal before March.
"It sort of bit the dust," I admitted.
"I thought you were doing it again."
"Um, the moment had passed," I confessed. "But I'm doing another one now!" I added, pathetically eager, and he nodded sympathetically.
"Is that the one about being famous?"
"Er, no. I, um, sort of ran out of steam on that one."
His brow furrowed manfully. "Oh. What's this one about then?"
"Oh, it's sort of hard to explain," I wibbled, and he nodded with great understanding.
"At least you keep trying," he said kindly, before wandering off to annoy his brother.
It's horrid admitting failure to your children when they still look up to you and somehow assume you can do anything. They must think I'm a right hopeless case. I can't even make money grow on trees for heaven's sake.
"You couldn't lend me a couple of quid could you?" he said hopefully, five minutes later.
Like he said, it's the trying that counts ...
Oh, and a big thank you to the lovely Alis Hawkins for this rather smashing award!
If anyone would like to pinch it, feel free - you're all cool you know :o)