“I finished my book last night”, said my groggy husband.
Fabulous news, dear one, but right now I don’t care. An ungenerous response? Nasty you might say.
His ground-breaking news broke at 7.15am. The children were fed, not dressed. They were playing cricket with a hard ball down the length of my house close to windows and glass frames. Their noses were dirty, their teeth unbrushed and I’d been up since 4.30am. Right then, I needed to shower, brush up and ship out.
There were 5 minutes left before we had to pile the children into a car for school.
You expect me to be excited? Not now. I need help! Get them brushed, shined and ready for school!
Once that was miraculously achieved, I phoned him ashamed at my lack of enthusiasm at his achievement.
The book has been with us in its abstract form for more than two years. Most of the writing happened at night between jobs, but for the last six months, my husband has been writing full time from home. (A self-employed full-time writer is not a good box to tick when you’re applying for a home loan, let me tell you.)
It’s a long time to have a husband immersed in a tale of his own.
We drove from Johannesburg to Pretoria and back the other day without saying a word to each other – that’s a three hour round trip.
I tried. Nice weather. I slept with Adam last night. Not such nice weather. Did you notice my suspenders?
Nada.
His mind was deep in a story in which I don’t feature.
But that story in its abstract form is over. It has been transposed onto paper and soon it will have a pretty place in published form on our book shelf.

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