Well, apart from the bit where I got hit in the face by a flying key: Mum's keyring is in two parts. The main part, and then an extra key which hangs off one of those clip-spring-things that you're supposed to attach to your waistband, with the other end sticking in your pocket. It got stuck on the way out of her handbag, and I was standing in just the wrong place and got whacked. Still, had I been wearing glasses, I suspect it would have been goodbye to the glasses. I also managed to burn my hand on the oven shelf this afternoon. I am accident prone.
Anyhow, we set off to Great Missenden to visit the Roald Dahl Museum. Mum driving, me streaming a little (it settled down fine, and I don't have a black eye to show for it, which is probably just as well) and mopping gently. Parked in a rather quiet carpark, which was mostly populated with people getting ready to go walking. You could tell they expected wet grass, but no rain, as they were wearing gaiters. We wandered past the Post Office (apparently, at its peak, 4000 letters a week would arrive for Roald Dahl) and got to the museum. It's absolutely brilliant.
First, there was a room all about his childhood, with some of the letters that he'd written home in a glass case: real letters, not facsimiles! Also in the case was a bottle of gobstoppers with a real dead (stuffed) mouse in it. Class. Then lots of pictures, and some old school uniforms to dress up in, and a school satchel with lots of interesting things in it to investigate.
Then there was a room which was more about his adulthood, with his flying helmet and his sandals (just the same as the ones the BFG wore - and equally enormous!), and flapping seagulls from James and the Giant Peach to cut and fold, and a drawer full of interesting letters to read (these were facsimiles) and stamps to stamp into your Book Of Ideas - because every kid gets given a Book of Ideas when they arrive, and a pencil to make ideas in.
The last room was an arty craft room: you could make faces using cut out pictures, and try stop-motion animation. Heaps of magnets with words on to tell stories, and tiles with words and part-words on them for the making up of new words, and a whole craft room, and a replica of Roald Dahl's writing chair to sit in.
The writing chair is very fine. It's an old, high-backed wing chair, with a writing board, which is cut out to fit one's body. The board is held at the correct angle by rolled up corrugated cardboard, and it's covered in green baize which is nice and non-slippy. Roald Dahl's chair has a hole cut in the back, because that was more comfortable for his spine, which he trashed when he was a fighter pilot in WW2. If I had a writing chair, I'd have an extra cushion, or possibly a slightly smaller seat. Whenever Roald Dahl settled down to write, he'd sit in the chair, spread his blanket over his knees (I've been spreading my blanket over my knees in my parents' sitting room - it helps keep my toes warm), get the board in position, brush off the rubber droppings from the previous day's rubbing out, sharpen six pencils (always the same brand, Dixon Triconderoga: I think that when they stopped making them, he managed to get them to make them again), pour himself some tea, and then write for two hours.
There's also a room specifically for storytelling, and a rather fine teashop called Cafe Twit. We need to take the Brownies. I came out with three pencils (one for me, one for each of my friends who are writing books), and a yellow note pad. Just like Roald Dahl used. I have no idea if it will help the creative process or not - I prefer the laptop, or Black and Red notebooks, but I'll write in pretty much anything, and at any time, as long as it's not while Mum wants my attention.
Back home, I baked wheat-free banana bread. Half to stay here for my parents to eat, and half for me to take home (and none for the Dishy Barrister, as I did the alcoholic version, and he's allergic to alcohol). Smelt lush, and I burnt myself on the oven shelf while I was arranging the pans in the oven. Naturally, I did not stick it under the cold tap for 10 minutes, so I've got a nice red splodge for my pains.
Then I wrote. Huzzah! The third draft is looking a bit longer than the second was at this point, as I've realised that I don't have a university word count to stick to, and therefore can put in more description and more conversation.
Finally, we had a very glorious mixed grill for supper. Sausage, pork chop, liver, steak, mushroom (gigantic), tomato (the big bull ones), peas, fried onions and chips. And ketchup. And a visit from a very inquisitive spider: I gave it to the cat to play with, but she merely stared at it while it wandered off the cusion. I nearly exploded when I attempted to add pineapple to the mix. I still feel ridiculously full.
I'll be back home tomorrow: I need to pack up the ludicrous amount of goodies I've acquired while I've been here. Presents, books, videos, a knitting magazine (no yarn or needles: the glorious shop in Great Missenden wasn't open, which is probably just as well), handbags, clothes, food.... because my parents are convinced that I don't eat, so I'm going home with turkey, bacon, pineapple, Christmas cake, mince pies, custard cream biscuits and the banana bread. The banana bread does smell really rather good.
xxx
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