My mother and father have been sending me emails from their travels in Europe, scattered with little descriptions of what they ate (a cabbage dish) and where (a 1960s style restaurant that made her feel underdressed), with anecdotes about the places they've visited (lady carrying a maine coone cat down the street in Grenoble). I press reply, bash out a 'that sounds tasty' or 'I'm very jealous, tell me more' and then my fingers hover over the keyboard, unable to fill in the blank section devoted to what's going on with me.
I'm having some difficulty wringing words out of the day-to-day, just now. Blog, correspondence, conversation. I had drinks with a close friend and a new friend yesterday evening and I wasn't holding up my end of the conversational bargain. I lay awake briefly last night, pondering where the pizazz has gone and whether I'd sunk the new friendship before it'd left the harbour. (Pizazz = such a wonderfully 80s/early 90s word, I think. It goes with Jem and the Holograms / The Misfits / Neon slashes on black lycra bike shorts / hairdryers).
But, as they say, the only way to write is to do it. So here I am. I've written to Mum this morning. We're getting the mower fixed this weekend, I said. It'll be a jungle out there after the rain overnight. P is away at a conference, which means I'll have cereal for dinner, I said. I suggested a day trip wine tasting on Waiheke Island to the new friend; we'll gather a group. It'll be fun. Make it happen.