It will not come as surprise to many that writers or other creatives who work from home, might not wear a suit to sit in their cave/desk/study. There’s a strong possibility that there will be a lack of ties adorning necks and polished shoes will probably be still in the box from the last wedding/funeral/event they were worn at.
I like to think of my ‘writing clothes’ as a unique blend of pyjamas, fluffy socks (because I can never find BOTH my slippers) and an assortment of scarves and woolly jumpers to help keep out the cold. Sitting in the same spot for long periods of time can wreak havoc on the circulatory system so I set alarms on my phone to ensure I make the 23 step (yes, I counted) journey to the kitchen to switch the kettle on every once in a while. I would like to add it was not me that opened the biscuit tin. Move along please, nothing to see here.
The dilemma I have is when the doorbell bing-bongs me out of my intense screen -staring habit. I get up out of my seat and walk towards the front door. It’s a blessing to us all that there aren’t any mirrors in my hallway otherwise I would never open the door again.
My hair, usually frowned at by the kids before they head to school, brings comments of ‘I like what you’ve done with your hair this morning, mum’, their sniggery smiles linger in the air as I do the age-old pat-down of loose strands before turning the key in the front door. I ignore the weetabix blob on my jumper and the ink on my index finger – it’s all part of the process.
I know there stands an unsuspecting person on my doorstep. I’m right.
“Oh, err, did I wake you?” says a freshly brushed set of teeth. I look at my watch, it’s 2pm.
No, no you did not, my friend my forced smile says back. I look down at my attire and say nothing.
These are house trousers, not pyjamas. And I am writing. My grin confirms. We nod at each other as the post is exchanged or the parcel is signed for.
The key is turned in the lock once again and I get on with my day.