Dancing in Drumnadrochit


On a writers’ week up in the North of Scotland with our writing group, we were doing a work session broken down into 30 minute pomodoros, timed on my phone. Every time the session ended and the timer went off, this seemed to happen! Toilet paper flowers in my hair á la Mirabelle, the MC of The Reluctant Detective series.

The following excerpt of Searching for Summer should help to explain the allusion.

Having promised her daughter a treat and promised she’d get back from work in time to enjoy it with her, Mirabelle is late, as usual, and discovers her daughter, Summer isn’t home. Having looked in every room, including ridiculous places …

… she sets about decorating the flat, stringing toilet paper across the rooms, draping it over the many pictures, round the sagging sofa, round the mis-matched comfy chairs, a big soft bow finishing it off on each one. She made a huge toilet paper flower and stuck it on the lid of the toilet cistern. Dancing to the reggae music she’d put on the CD player, she gyrated to her bedroom and back, lipstick in hand, to write ‘Well Done!’ and ‘Congratulations!’ on the mirror, on the fridge, even across the doors, with no thought as to how it would be removed tomorrow.
“Party dress,” she decided, searching through her chest of drawers, scattering underwear, socks, scarves and gloves around her like the flutter of autumn leaves. Finding what she knew was buried in the depths of one of the drawers, she threw the bright pink feather boa round her neck on top of the strings of beads she already wore, made some soft, floppy toilet paper flowers, clipping them into the tight curls of her black hair, and added some more bangles to the ones already jingling on her wrists.
Dancing through to the kitchen, she dug out a box of little flower candles, designed to float on a lake in a bowl, and sat them on top of a sponge cake from the freezer, unable to resist scooping some of the frozen cream from between its layers with her finger. It felt icy on her teeth, sweet on her tongue.
Confident Summer would be accepted at Edinburgh University, she had bought an iPad thingy from a catalogue and it had been delivered, wrapped and hidden days ago. She brought it out and gave it centre stage on the kitchen table in front of the cake, sweeping the resident clutter off onto a chair from which most of it cascaded onto the floor.
There were some sparklers in the drawer beside the matches and she stuck them in the cake, ready to light at the first sound or sight of Summer.
“She’s gonna love this,” Mirabelle sang, her finger scooping out more cream. “She’s gonna love it.”
She looked at the clock. Half-past nine. The film would be over by now. The cinema was only at the top of the road. She draped herself in the deep, old armchair they kept in the kitchen, turning it so she could see the look of delight on Summer’s face as she came through the door.

http://mybook.to/SearchingforSummer

 

 

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