I’ll be honest with you (I can’t lie to you, I like you too much). I’m not much of a sharer.

I don’t mean this in an, ‘I’m going to eat all the biscuits and leave none for you,’ kind of way. You can have all the biscuits and all the crisps if you like, just don’t touch my Double Deckers.

I’m talking about sharing in a social media type way.

Oh yes – that old chestnut. You may or may not have read my post from a week or two ago (don’t worry if you didn’t – I know how busy you were that week).

https://annielyons.com/2015/08/31/my-love-hate-relationship-with-social-media/

It was all about my love/hate relationship with social media and how I feel that we all need to step away from the keyboard/tablet/phone from time to time and just be. I received a big reaction to this post and we were mostly in agreement. You need to find that ‘off’ button every now and then.

About a week ago, I heard a story on the radio reporting that psychologists had discovered that, ‘the need to be constantly available and respond 24/7 on social media accounts can cause depression, anxiety and decrease sleep quality for teenagers.’ 

Apart from winning my own personal award for, ’least surprising fact ever,’ it made me wonder how we’ve allowed this to happen because actually, this is the monster we’ve created.

We have developed this innate desire to share every tiny detail of our lives, possibly because it’s so easy to do. Click a button, load a photo, make a comment and you’re done. However and this however is the size of Mars by the way.

Sometimes there is nothing to share.

At least not for me.

I may win my own award for, ‘most boring life in the world,’ but my day mostly consists of school runs, chores, staring out of the window trying to think of something to write and writing. That’s it. When I set up the author pages for my Twitter and Facebook accounts, I was painfully aware that often I had nothing of interest to tweet or share.

That was part of the reason I started to blog and at the start of the year I set myself the challenge of writing a post a week. I have managed it so far, apart from one week during the Easter holidays when I had to resort to a photograph of a squirrel eating an ice-cream but then, it was a squirrel eating an ice-cream.

I haven’t met a person yet who doesn’t want to see that.

Still, I can’t help but feel that we sometimes put ourselves under too much pressure to share.

Twenty years ago if we had a piece of important information, we would have picked up the phone or even, dare I suggest it, written a letter. To one person.

Ten years ago, it was all about e-mail. Usually to one person but occasionally to a group.

Now it has to be done immediately, preferably in fewer than 140 characters and to the whole world. Invariably on at least three different platforms.

That is pressure.

I know this and you know this because we remember a time when this world didn’t exist. However, today’s teenagers with their snapchats, instagrams (I appreciate I sound like a doddery old dear here but I rather like it) and whatever else has been invented this week, are bearing the brunt. They have grown up with touch screens, are puzzled by CDs and don’t even know what a cassette is. It’s a brave new world but it’s an exhausting and pressured one too.

I also think that this generation of teenagers have the rawest deal. They are paving the way for my children and I’m grateful for that. The biggest question has to be, ‘do I need to share that?’ and moreover, ‘what will happen if I do?’ You see I get the feeling that people feel so pressured to have something to share or to be part of a discussion (not judging here, we all need to belong) that they create dramas or exaggerate and before long, they’re sharing opinions or images which will in all seriousness, haunt them for the rest of their lives.

For my part, I shall encourage my children to find the ‘off’ button and use their common sense when they’re sharing online. I think my rule is going to be, ‘never share anything that you wouldn’t share with Grandma.’ I know my children may rebel against me at some stage but they would never want to disappoint my Mum.

As for me, I expect I shall continue to have little to share and I’m fine with that. I won’t feel the pressure – there’s enough pictures of baby pandas and grumpy cats without me adding to them but just in case you did miss it…

Now that’s quite enough sharing for one day – who wants a biscuit?

The advantage of being married to the same person for thirteen years is that you usually agree on the big stuff. Indeed, this is probably why you stay married to this person for that length of time – disagreements on issues such as, ‘where should we live,’ and, ‘should we have children/a dog/a cat/a time-share in Magalouf’, are all key issues which require mutual accord.

My husband and I have managed to achieve agreement on most of the key decisions over the years, although there was a moment very early on during our first ever trip to Ikea. I think it was excessive stress due to being unable to find the tills or a person to ask about the location of said tills (I wanted to find a person, he just wanted to leave), but we were young and carefree and had no idea what real stress was. That came later with mortgages, marriage and small people.

Then there was the time when we were trying to decide where to live and having visited a very expensive and very unpleasant flat above an Undertakers in Tooting, he made the following wide-eyed suggestion.

‘Why don’t we go and live in a house-boat on the Thames?’

We were both working in publishing at the time, both with company cars, travelling to customers the length and breadth of the country. I gave him a look, which was quite new and unpractised back then but which is pretty skilled now. At first, he didn’t understand the look and we had a heated debate about the relative merits of living on a boat, whilst trying to maintain a professional lifestyle or merely stay warm, dry and happy. He was quite passionate about it whilst I was violently opposed. To paraphrase the late Brian Clough, we talked about it for twenty minutes and then decided I was right.

I wouldn’t want you to misunderstand me, reader friends.  I don’t always get my way and my husband is categorically not a pushover. He’s actually as stubborn as a mule wearing a pair of mules, who got straight As in ‘won’t budge, ‘can’t make me,’ and ‘what are you going to do about it?’.

Unfortunately so am I.

Recently we had a conversation about the pros and cons of summer and autumn, and it became immediately apparent that we are in entirely opposite camps. It went something like this:

Me: I love autumn. I love cold, crisp mornings and falling leaves turning orange and red. It’s the most beautiful time of year.

Husband: There’s always dog poo in piles of leaves. Leaves are not to be trusted.

Me (ignoring this): But it’s such a refreshing season. It’s like nature’s way of clearing away the old plants and getting the earth ready for next spring.

Husband: Everything dies.

Me (ploughing on regardless): The evenings draw in and you can cosy up, nestle under a blanket and watch great television like Strictly for instance.

Husband (with eyebrows raised): I don’t like Strictly.

Me (casting around for a positive): You like Claudia Winkleman. And the music, you like the music. And Ola Jordan.

Husband (nodding): I guess

Me (thinking I’m on to a winner here): And the football season has started. Liverpool are on almost every weekend.

Husband (frowning): They lost last weekend.

Me: Yes but-

Husband (on a downward spiral): And the weekend before.

Me (in slight desperation): What about roast dinners?

Husband (slightly more cheerful): Yeah, roasts are good.

Me: And then there’s Fireworks night and Christmas.

Husband (pedantically): That’s winter, not autumn.

Me (through clenched teeth): True, but what about misty mornings and cold but sunny days, apples on the trees and my home-made parkin.

Husband (nodding): I do like parkin.

Me (smiling and putting an arm around his shoulder): See? Autumn is great isn’t it?

Husband (smiling at me before planting a kiss on my cheek and moving to the safety of the doorway): It is but summer’s still better.

He grins at me before darting from the room, fearing a punch on the arm. I sigh and fold my arms. I could come back with a retort but I’m playing the long game here and I know exactly how to resolve it.

I head to the kitchen and set about taking out the ingredients needed to make parkin. I will be victorious and I will use cake to achieve my victory because everyone knows that cake is the trump card that wins every time.

Regular readers of this blog will know how much I love a list. This week finds me working on my next book and this in itself has started me thinking about where I am when I have my best ideas.

I have therefore decided to unite the two in beauteous harmony. Here are my top five ‘light-bulb’ locations.

 

The Shower

It is a source of great joy and huge frustration that I probably have my very best ideas whilst I’m washing my hair. I’m thinking that perhaps the massaging of my scalp is kick-starting a neurological ideas-fest in my head. Sadly, I can rarely remember them by the time I am dry and next to a notebook. I currently have a patent-pending on the waterproof notebook and pen and firmly expect it to make me millions.

Whilst driving

A close second to the shower but not always so productive as there is often a small person demanding a tissue, some food or replies to questions such as, ‘do you believe in God?’ At 8.27 in the morning? I can barely remember my name. Still, if the ideas don’t flow then the dialogue for scenes can often be found. Again, as with the shower, the lack of ability to write stuff down can be a problem. I have been known to repeat an idea over and over so that I don’t forget it but only if I’m on my own, when it is perfectly acceptable to act like a crazy lady.

 

Whilst sitting in a coffee shop

I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again, staring out of the window at the blue sky whilst listening to the cheeping of small birds doesn’t give me ideas. It makes me long for a nap. When the ideas start to dwindle and I need to remind myself what humans look like, I head for the nearest coffee shop. Fortunately I am very nosy but quite good at appearing to do something else. It doesn’t always end up in a book but it’s very useful for stimulating the imagination.

Whilst cleaning the house

I am a reluctant cleaner. It is repetitive and boring. However, the mindlessness of the job means that your brain is effectively empty and I find that random ideas often pop into my mind and take root. The best type of cleaning for this is dusting or wiping surfaces. Nothing will pop into your brain whilst cleaning the toilet apart from, ‘I bloody hate cleaning toilets. I wish I could afford a cleaner or at least train the children to do this.’

 

In the middle of the night

I used to be a really good sleeper. I could sleep for twelve hours at a stretch, have an afternoon nap and then do another twelve the night after. Since I hit forty, my brain seems to like to wake me up around four with a brilliant idea for a blog or a book or just to worry about the leak in the kitchen. Sometimes I want to remove my brain, have a sharp word with it and threaten to remove its TV privileges unless it goes back to sleep immediately. However, I often get up and start writing. I came up for the entire concept for my second book during one sleep-deprived night so it does work, even if it leaves me feeling as grumpy as a badger.

 

So there you have it – my top five light-bulb locations. Let me know what yours are and I’ll be sure to send you a waterproof notebook and pen once it hits the shelves.

 

Regular readers of my blog may remember that we moved last year to a house which my husband and I lovingly refer to as ‘the money-pit.’ It makes me think of George and Mary’s house in, ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’. For the uninitiated, there’s a scene in the film when George arrives home on the evening after their wedding and it’s raining both inside and outside the house.  It reminds me of the money-pit because for the past year, we have been trying to fix leaks of one kind or another.

We have had leaky gutters (causing damp), a leaking dishwasher (which had to be replaced), a leaking shower, tap, windows, conservatory roof and most recently, a leaking fridge. There are times when I have wondered if I should re-define my occupation from, ‘writer’ to ‘woman who attempts to prevent water coming into the house’. Less catchy but you get the gist.

The other thing you may know if you’ve read this blog before is that despite being reasonably intelligent people, my husband and I are somewhat lacking when it comes to the more practical side of life (see my earlier post about the day we changed a lightbulb for evidence).

So, when we finally realised that the fridge was not only leaking but also failing to keep anything inside it cool or (perhaps in a more potentially life-threatening way) frozen, we decided to take action. By action I mean that we did what any right-thinking middle-class people do and bought the cheapest replacement from John Lewis.

The fridge was delivered a week or so later by a couple of cheery giants. They took the old one away, set the new one up and told me to leave it for four to six hours before using. I thanked them and returned to the kitchen to admire our new shiny white beauty. I took a step back to get a better look and a worrying thought whispered in my brain.

It looks smaller than the last fridge.

I shook my head. I must be imagining it.

We wouldn’t have bought a smaller fridge.

Would we?

 

I opened the door and tried to put the bottle shelf from the old fridge inside. It wouldn’t fit. It was far too big. My heart sank. I opened the freezer compartment. It looked quite big but then it was completely empty and everything looks big when it’s empty. I called my daughter for back-up. She is ten and always says the right thing.

‘What do you think of the new fridge?’ I asked her, trying to dismiss the panic from my voice.

She screwed up her face. ‘It’s nice?’ she offered.

‘What about the size?’ I asked. A leading question I know but hey, I needed answers fast.

‘Yeah, it’s slim isn’t it? Did you mean to buy a smaller one this time?’

‘No,’ I sighed, starting to feel sick. ‘No, I did not.’

It was then that I found the instruction booklet for both the new and old fridges. I turned to the pages that no-one ever looks at, which deal with ‘specifications’. I noted with interest that there was a ‘capacity’ category. I noted with tears in my eyes that the capacity figure for the new fridge was smaller than the old fridge’s. Hindsight is a marvellous but profoundly irritating thing.

By the time my husband came home that evening, I had a plan.

‘You’ll have to phone John Lewis and tell them we made a mistake.’

‘Why me?’

‘Because I am the woman who attempts to prevent water coming into the house. You are the man who orders the new fridges.’

‘O-kay,’ he sighed.

Ten minutes later, he came off the phone, his face bright and triumphant. ‘John Lewis are great,’ he beamed.

A week later, two different cheery giants arrived to take away the old-new fridge and replace it with a much bigger new-new fridge. It’s so tall, I need a step to reach the top shelf and it beeps in protest if you accidentally leave the door open. Best of all, it doesn’t leak.

Now all I need to do is get the guttering fixed and work out where that water in the kitchen is coming from.

The work of a WWATPWCITH is never done.