A Squeezy Lemon

All weekend, I've been craving lemon barley water. I like the fresh, clean taste. It reminds me of boring tearooms, and lawns spoiled by daisies. (I don't know why. I mostly drank it outside the SPAR shop on King's Hedges Road. Not many daisies there, or tearooms, either. Not in those days, anyway. It could be different, now.)

Stupid lemon barley water. They don't sell it here. The grocer said he had some, but sent a squeezy lemon. (Squeezy lemon, squeezy lemon: oh, you know. Wee plastic jobbie, shaped like a lemon, full of lemon juice. They come in lime, as well. Old people always have them.) What am I supposed to do with a squeezy lemon? You can't drink the juice. It tastes awful. It's full of salt, or something. There's no mistaking squeezy lemon for actual lemon. You can't even use it for cooking. It messes up the salt:savoury ratio. It'll sit in my fridge for a year or two, then go out with the dust. What a waste. That could've been twenty horrid cups of tea, or four salty pies, right there.

On the novel-writing front, I've decided to save the dustman-meets-talking-bird idea for later. An unknown author shouldn't try that sort of plot. It could get mistaken for sword-and-sorcery genre fiction (from which, I'm told, there's no escape. Write it once, and you'll write it forever. Sod that. I don't even read it.) I'm messing about with various absurd-but-possible ideas, instead. The current frontrunner is a comedy about a barmy professor, his senile mother, and a marriage that ruins everything. Wait, that's a tragedy. What do you call a story that ends miserably for all involved, but keeps you laughing throughout?

a) A mistake;

b) A relic of the early- to mid-twentieth century, thoroughly inappropriate for today's market;

c) A squeezy lemon;

d) All of the above?

Stupid lemon barley water. It made me think of Cambridge, and walking along the backs--that's where the professor came from. He popped into my head fully-formed, wandering amongst the daffodils in his cap and gown. Immediately, I began dreaming up ways of getting him into the river, or, at the very least, into hot water.

I've got a week or two to think about it, anyhow. Mother should be finished with Giant Rats soon, and then I can start on the second draft. After that, I'll polish up my summaries and query letters, and start looking for an agent. (I wish one would just fall in my lap. I hate all this talking to people nonsense. I'm pants at it. I could've been twenty thousand words into a new novel, in the time it's taken to draft a letter of inquiry. I have no idea what to say. My synopses sound silly. They read like the backs of penny-dreadfuls. No-one will ask for the manuscript. My Visa bill will pass the eight thousand dollar mark. I'll have to sell a kidney. This is an unmitigated disaster! Pfooooo!)

In other news, Gail sent me a stuffed rat from IKEA. It's very soft. It feels like one of those Polar Fleece coats, before it pills up like an Aspirin factory. It's a good stuffed rat. I'm thinking of hanging it from the ceiling, if I can find a piece of string.