How soon is too soon to laugh in the face of despair

On water damage, demolition, and having to move out with a baby who has just learnt to crawl

I had planned a different post for today, but then disaster struck. Firstly, I deleted my entire ‘Read, Watch, Listen, Do’ post for September because I stupidly had it open on two browsers and the empty version saved over the complete one. A few swear words, a fist shake at the screen, you know yourself. Then, my partner got back to our flat on Sunday night and found water pouring down the walls, out of the light fixtures, and rippling across the floors.

If you’ve ever wondered how much water a wall can absorb in twenty-four hours, I can tell you—it’s a lot. Industrial de-humidifiers have been chugging away for over a week and still, the water is sucked from the walls by the litre. Pipes leave each unit, twisting and curling down the hallway like sad little snakes, each one dangled into a bathtub I can’t climb into.

Water always finds a way. In this instance, it found a way into our home, bubbling the plaster and paintwork and bending the wooden floors. Both my partner and I are Pisces and for a millisecond I thought about making a joke about how very ironic that water has invaded our home, but I couldn’t find a good punchline and so let it die in my head. I watched a video of water dripping down a framed photo of our baby grinning—her lovely, gummy smile—and sat in my sadness. It’s too soon. Nothing about it felt very funny.

I grew up joking about misfortune. Not in a mean way, but in a ‘you have to see the funny side’ kind of way. It’s a family thing and it’s not understood by everyone, I get that. Light and dark are very closely connected for me. I’ll give you one example: a mild one. When my Grandpop died (yep, here we go) we were sat in the chapel, listening to his eulogy. My Grandpop was not a religious man—unless you count the off-license a place of worship—and when it was announced that he had requested a humanist ceremony, the steward flinched. On the alter, there was a crucifix. Not a ‘clutch it to your chest in a thunderstorm’ sort of crucifix, but a scallop edged, foot-high sort of crucifix. Thinking that no one could see him at the back of the room, the steward crawled on his hands and knees and next thing we know, a hand is patting the table, trying to find the bloody thing. He lowered the crucifix, hid it under a tablecloth, and returned to his position at the side of the room—genuinely thinking that he’d just served us a masterclass in subtlety. To say we were bursting blood vessels from trying to keep it together was an understatement. I thought I might die from the effort it was taking not to laugh. I was red, my shoulders were shaking, a distant relative started rubbing my back thinking I was upset, which made it worse, obviously.

So, what makes the difference? Time. It’s why no one really wants to read about the pandemic. Too soon. Back when I was outlining my first novel, I read that ‘You should never start your book with your protagonist complaining because you’ll lose your reader.’ I am the protagonist here and have pretty much done nothing but complain for the past week. It’s boring. After three days, we got our heads around the damage, what needed to be done, and where we would stay whilst the flat dries out. We decided we didn’t need or want to mope anymore. Shit, as they say, happens. No one was hurt. Things can be replaced. Also, you wouldn’t believe how quickly I can pack a holdall and a rucksack for two adults and a baby now. Sign me up to that Olympic event, please!

Am I starting to find something to laugh about now? Yes, because it’s easier and better than looking at the sky and shouting ‘WHY ME!’ When you spend two years renovating a house, you realise that buildings are literally just bricks and concrete stacked on the earth’s good, honest muck and there’s something humbling about that. Those wooden floors—the ones I found in an amazing deal at the back of a building merchant’s catalogue—were described as ‘rustic oak’. Well, they’re pretty fucking rustic now. Each board has flexed away from the floor, so now it feels like walking across the poop deck of the Cutty Sark. I wish it stopped there. Part of the chimney stack fell into the baby’s room on the same day as #floodgate and let me tell you—washing one-hundred year old dust from baby toys and tiny little vests makes your heart feel very heavy. Did you know that it was common practice to mix cow and horse fur with plaster until around 1904, to give it more structural integrity? And that there’s a small risk that such animal hair carries anthrax spores? You didn’t? Well now you know! The only way I can celebrate this information is in the circumstance that I’m answering a question on the last round of ‘Who wants to be a millionaire?’ and then go on to win.

So, what have I found funny recently, in the midst of all this horrible, messy chaos?

• A voicenote from my friend about a bizarre experience involving a fringe trim

• My mum’s coughing fit (see earlier note on family sense of humour) which made her voice shift a whole octave higher

• The baby giggling at my partner’s foot (?)

• A woman pushing a cat in a buggy through Waterloo station (the cat was also wearing a tutu)

• The baby’s face when she tried tofu for the first time

• A video of an older man pencil diving headfirst into a swimming pool

Lastly, I’d like to honestly, truly, thank you all for the messages of love and concern over the past week. It really means a lot. I know that we slate social media—and don’t get me wrong, it is the ninth circle of the devil’s arsehole—but I have had so many heartwarming conversations on Substack and Instagram recently and have felt far more connected than I have disconnected, which has been a comfort, especially as I’m trying to find some element of consistency in an otherwise chaotic day-to-day.

Oh, the baby has started to crawl. Here’s her in action:

UPCOMING EVENT: Tues 17th October 7-9pm

Journalling Motherhood

In 2020, I heard Kate Okello before I met her. I had been sent the audio sample for my first novel, The Lonely Fajita, and Kate was hired to voice it. Since then, we’ve met, become a little bit obsessed with each other, and now we’re teaming up to run an event together for mums who want to write.

It’s a two hour journalling workshop at The Hearth in Queens Wood, NW London, which is a beautiful venue with sofas you can sink into and all the cosiness your autumnal soul could desire. There will be a grazing table and wine. Be still my beating heart.

I have gained so much from journalling, even if it’s a forty-five second list before my head hits the pillow, so I’m really looking forward to sharing how it can be used as a tool for gathering gentle power in the midst of loud days. Here’s the event description:

Motherhood is an outpouring, but so often we need time and space to fill our own (ink) well. At the end of this workshop, everyone will leave a writer. Putting pen to paper is a powerful act that comes from an urge to make sense of our experiences, especially as new mothers. We are constantly writing a new, challenging, and wondrous chapter of our lives. Through reflection, journal writing, and creative prompts, we will explore the complexities and wonders of motherhood whilst honouring it with the time and space to reflect on the self.

Tickets are £29 and include wine, a grazing table, and the workshop itself. If you sign up to the MRS OT newsletter, you also get £5 off, so that’d be £24. A bargain, pure and simple.

Paid subscribers: I’ll be back on it with writing related content next week, as well as our CREATIVE CLOUDBUSTING thread. Thank you for bearing with me, I really do appreciate it.