DOG IN RESIDENCE: Week Two, Day 10

Guest blogger: Horrie Oddlong

There’s action in the bedroom.

 

I’ve seen it all now. The whole wardrobe, I mean. Most of it’s on the floor. That’s because the House Writer declared a sudden moratorium on fleece and drawstring earlier. It followed a good hour of judicious paper shuffling.

 

“Hold tight, Horrie!” she said, throwing her pen across the room. “Something urgent needs addressing.”

 

In the bedroom, she stripped off. Then began the painstaking process of relieving everything in the wardrobe of its hanger, adorning herself with it in various combinations, testing out a small but impressive repertoire of struts and poses, before discarding each piece in turn to the shanty town on the floordrobe.

 

When the final whistle blew (that was me; somebody had to finish it) she was dressed in what I now understand to be the Writing Residency Outfit.

 

I get it; she’s still searching for those ideal conditions under which her manuscript will flourish. It’s doubtless why she’s sleeping on the other side of the bed now, and drinking rum instead of coffee, and catching random buses to the end of their line, just to be somewhere she usually isn’t.

 

“It’s Method Writing, Horrie,” she says, a bit defensively. “I’m trying to inhabit the body and mind of an actual writer who is windswept and elsewhere.”

 

She’s wearing silky culottes, a chunky knit and an artfully arranged headscarf, for those into details. As Writing Residency Outfits go it’s quite fetching, but I’m worried. If she’s not an actual writer, who the hell am I?

 

Now hang about, because she’s gone and pulled back the bed clothes, and climbed right in. Pixie boots, glitter socks and all.

 

“If you want to be more creative, Horrie, you should definitely have a nap,” she says, adjusting her headscarf to lie flat on the pillow. “All the how-to-write books are quite clear on this point.”

 

I’m not sure I have an argument, so I’m making my way towards the shanty town’s enclave of multi-coloured woollens. In an existential crisis, you might as well be comfortable.