Now, daydreams I am never short of. Often, in fact, whilst doing something as mundane as the dishes, I'll happily while away the time with a pleasant fantasy starring George Clooney. It will usually involve some simple plot: he'll relentlessly woo me, but like in any good rom-com I'll block him at every turn using nothing but my dazzling wit and some snappy repartee. Thankfully I usually finish the dishes before I need to make the agonizing decision of finally falling for George's charms or sticking with the loyal Galumph (don't worry, honey, it's you every time).
When winding ball of yarn, however, the fantasies take on a far more literary spin. Something about the repitition of winding the yarn over and over usually provokes an Austenian response in me, and my inner dialogue usually goes something like this:
"How good it is to be all together again at Longborn! As soon as I finish winding this ball I should see to getting the lamps lit, for Galumph will soon be home. I wonder what Hil has organised for dinner. For it is the truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of a long bike ride home must be in want of a good dinner..."
Then I imagine Galumph coming in the door. Instead of revelling in simple, homely delights, the daydream can often take a darker turn at this point into Isben terrority:
Galumph entering stage left: Behold, my little skylark! Winding your ball, just like the little women of the house that I want you to be. Stay, my love, wind that ball, and remain trapped in your stifling marriage, with never a single thought of independance to cross your little mind! Just the way Torvald likes it!
Jorth: ARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHH! Get me out of the Dollhouse!
Usually at this point I fall into a slightly depressed slump. Torvald always does that to me. From here it's only a short hop to Dickens territory, and we all know how cheerful he can be:
"Here I am, winding my ball, always winding as my life slips away, caught in a cycle of defeat and despair. I can't figure out which I'm more like: the wards of Jarndyce, watching their fortune be swallowed up by never-ending legal costs as all hope rapidly disappears, or Miss Havisham, locked in the mindset of the jilted bride, with nothing better to spend her energy on that teaching wee Estella to devour the men. Can that be the time - twenty to nine! Still here I am, winding my ball, over and over. Winding, winding, winding..."
Then I turn into Ada Doom from Cold Comfort Farm, hunched over my ball, as I begin to mutter about seeing something nasty in the woodshed.
Pity the poor Grumbles or Galumph who happens upon me at this stage. I'm a sight to behold, clutching my ball of yarn and beginning a keening wail, eyes madly darting about as I hop around the chair.
I'm telling you, books and yarn winding: not always a good mix. Does, um, anybody else have such vivid daydreams? Anyone? At all? Pleeeeaaase tell me I'm not the only one who embarks upon literary flights of fancy - or fancies the pants off George Clooney!
I think a poll is in order: