My Family and Other Animals and...

Machinery, apparently!

Do you talk to yourself? First sign of madness, or so they say. In which case I'm several steps along the pathway to pills.

Working by oneself at home can be an isolating and lonely business. The kitchen radio burbles in the background if I'm pottering in the heart of the home, but in order to work I need silence and find even the distant whir of the washing machine can be distracting. In reality I suspect that the sensitivity to sound is a form of displacement activity and my brain is seeking ways in which to delay getting down to work. Interestingly, I am capable of sitting in a local university sports cafe, (a wonderfully open space with floor to ceiling walls looking out over a balcony, sports track and grounds beyond); fantastically fit athletes of all descriptions strolling around; foods of varying calorific value wafting past and interminable tvs overhead, and barely glancing up for more than an hour at a time. Here, as indeed anywhere other than home, the daily hubbub serves as a source of comfort.

At home I mutter, to myself and to the canine members of the family, as I make cups of tea, mentally going over a paragraph just written or the direction of the pages to come. I consult the dogs as to whether I've got time to get to the bank before the school run, or could they manage a speed walk today as I would like to write a new post on the blog before competition for the computer hots up. They're pretty good at replying or acquiesing and we've reached a quiet understanding; if they think I need a break they'll indicate as such, casual indifference means it's time I shut up and picked up the pen again.

But my third step along this route came yesterday as I sat at the kitchen table and, editing pen in hand, muttering over the best way to describe something, began to sympathise out loud with the elder dog about her undoubted stomach problems. Noises, quiet to begin with, became louder and - still not looking up (notice the focus on work!) - I asked whether she'd need to leave the room. No response, but the gurgling continued, as did I. A loud burping rumble and I downed pen and turned to run to the back door to urge the offending pet outside. She looked up innocently from her beanbag in the outside porch.

I had been talking to the fridge. It may have stomach problems too, but it will certainly never respond to my voice of concern.

Shall I book myself in now?