May I interrupt?
Do you ever have difficulty accomplishing what you set out to do because of interruptions? Happens to me all the time. This morning alone I was deeply engrossed in creating an action sequence for a children’s fantasy I’m writing, when my husband burst into the room to show me the obituary of a man he went to school with 50 odd years ago.
Did I know this unfortunate fellow in any way, shape or form? No. How about anyone remotely related to him, did I know them? Nope. I’ve never heard of the guy before this, nor will I ever hear of him again, but thanks to Tom I now know that in 1968 the man dated the prettiest girl in class, drove a nice car and liked the colour red.
Eventually, Tom left to peruse more home-town obituaries (good times) and I turned back to my work. Yet, no sooner had I gathered my thoughts to begin tapping out the final scene of this ill-fated chapter, than my daughter Aliyah flung my door wide and leapt into the room with a grin. Extending her IPad, she scuttled toward me feeling compelled to share the video of some woman evacuating her catheter on the sidewalk of a popular supermarket by slapping it repeatedly on the pavement just outside the doors.
Did I want or need to view this revolting footage? No. Did it benefit me in any way? Not a bit. But I watched it at her request and exclaimed at what bizarre sights can be found on the Internet.
Closing the door of my office behind her, I moved to sit down at my computer again, struggling to bring my thoughts back to the task at hand. Ah yes, the hero Kayden had just picked up his sword and lifted it to defend…
RING! The strident tones of the telephone burst upon my ears. Leaping to attention I snatched it up only to hear a threatening message advising me that action was being taken against my social insurance number. Furthermore, an automated voice went on, the authorities were about to be called, I was in danger of arrest, and an appearance before the magistrate to explain my criminal activities was imminent.
Oh for Pete’s sake, I thought, hanging up on them. Another scam.
Once more I hunkered over the keyboard, eyes squeezed shut, head in hands, vainly trying to recall where my thoughts had left off.
BANG! Something hit the back of my chair almost pulling me over backward. I screeched, flailing my arms over my head and encountering something fluffy that flew through the air behind me. Nemo the cat! Good grief.
Just then Tom rattled the doorknob and marched in with his laptop computer.
“Look at this second-hand washing machine I’ve found Helen,” he said happily, drawing up a chair beside me. “It’s a real good price.”
“But we don’t need a bloody washing-machine,” I declared just as the electricity went out and my computer ground to a halt.
“Not now maybe,” he countered, “but when we do, I’ll be ready.”
“ARGH,” I groaned, lunging from my chair and rushing from the room in complete exasperation. Some days it’s hopeless to try and get anything done.
Helen Row Toews writes about the humour of everyday life from her farm near Lloydminster. See more at myprairiewool.com