Today I made jam - a dozen jars from blackberries I foraged in the country lanes around Bromsgrove. That's nearly 6 kilos, which might sound like a lot but I'm kidding myself that it'll last until Christmas.
It's also the first of September, 2024. Yesterday, after 30 years in the classroom, my teaching contract expired and now I can finally embark on my dream career as a penniless writer being supported by my wife. It's not that bad, actually. I've got some novels behind me and some paid gigs ahead and a month planned visiting my mum in Australia without having to pay exorbitant school holiday airfares. I'm going to go off-grid in the Tasmanian wilderness for a week and see if I still exist.
Not going to lie, though, it's a bit scary. When you've spent three decades fulfilling your patriarchy-determined role of Man and Bread-winner I figure the deprogramming isn't going to happen overnight. That's why Lego exists. Which I now can't afford. Hm. Not sure I've thought this through.
No, actually, I have. Exhaustively, but I won't bore you by showing my working. The upshots are thusly:
• teaching is a bloody excellent job, a lot harder than anybody who isn't a teacher thinks, but in the words of Bilbo Baggins you get to feeling like butter scraped over too much bread. If you're one of my teacher mates reading this, you rock.
• blackberries make great jam but you've got to suffer quite a few pricks and nettle stings to get there. The metaphor pretty much writes itself.
• did I mention that I have a new book out? It's called "The Strandling" and it's my first proper foray into self-publishing so please be gentle. There's even a chapter where my two main characters go blackberrying en route to discovering something nasty in the hedgerows. You know, if you're into that kind of thing.
Me, I'm off for a scone.