the news, the news; and something that isn’t news

I’m spending a lot of time reading and thinking about politics at the moment, which means that when I wake up in the morning I’m reading the news online, instead of thinking what I’m going to write on the blog. And I don’t do politics on the blog. 

So here are some news items from Hepworth Towers:

• I beat Dave at table tennis last night – the first time this summer. Whoop! Whoop!
• I finished the screenplay (again) and am waiting for comments before I do the next draft
• I am going to start a brand new screenplay next week: it’s a novel I had already planned, but now I am going to make into a TV serial instead
• The sweet peas are doing fine, but the convolvulus is doing even better
• Dave was given an old oak creosoted gate for firewood and made it into a bench instead. The slots are where the bits fitted together:

 

• Zoë is bringing the boys over today, which will be fun.

Finally, here is the “not news” portion of our programme: an old blog post from 5 years ago, which amused me yesterday. The context is this: I was anxiously waiting to hear about the birth of Lux.

Sue Hepworth is a ratbag

I am a ratbag. It’s official. I chew people up on the phone. And I don’t mean people selling double glazing or trying to entice me back to BT, or someone from the subscription department of The Times, with a great, great offer.

I chew people up that I like. I chew them up when I’m stressed. I chew them up when I’m waiting impatiently for a particular call and the wrong person rings.

On Saturday morning my daughter got it. She was due to come over with her boys, and after speaking to me, she changed her mind. (Who could blame her? Even I didn’t like me much on Saturday.) Tate and Gil were looking forward to coming to see me, so she tried to bribe them to go paddling in Padley Gorge instead. They chose me.  She told them I was a ratbag. They still wanted to come. She told them she’d buy them an ice cream. But they wanted to see me more. I apologised profusely on the phone to Zoe, and begged her to come. She relented, bless her. She forgave me.

So…I may not have a publisher for my novel, but it is a delicately nuanced novel.

I may be a ratbag, but my grandsons like me more than ice cream.

No-one is perfect. And I am especially not perfect, but the people who matter still love me. So everything is OK.

And here is an official apology to everyone I have ever chewed up. I’m really sorry.

p.s. The header today is also a blast from the past.