X The End

THE END
Tonight I feel wonderful!
Tonight I am going to dance an Irish jig and sing The Hallelujah
Chorus.
Tonight I'm going to celebrate!
I sit before my computer screen and beside me is an unopened bottle of
the third most expensive French Champagne that I could find amongst the
'sparkling wines' section in Sainsbury's. Tonight I'm going to open it
and get totally blotto because, to be quite honest, I've damn well
earned it!
I've been earning it for a total of five years, eleven months and four
days!
That's how long it's taken me to attain the prestigious elevated
position of self-satisfaction where I sit tonight.

Tonight I will type 'THE END.'

Those are the final two words of the novel that I started on Christmas
Eve 1994 and which has since dictated my whole life. From conception to
reality this novel has been my whole raison d'?tre.' Which must
indicate, you think, how meaningless my life was pre-1994. But you
would be quite wrong in that assumption. My life as a wife, cook,
cleaner and mother has always had meaning, even though that meaning was
about as interesting as a textbook on quantum physics. But in the days
pre-1994 I knew nothing about the excitement and satisfaction of
writing a brilliantly innovative novel.
Now two final words pressed out on my computer will signify the
culmination of all my labours in my pursuit of excellence. After
tonight I can resume normality, even though normality might be boring;
even though nothing will ever be the same as that first moment when, in
a haze of red wine and sherry, I started writing the afore-mentioned
novel.

My fingers, unused to idleness, itch to type the words but I resist.
Instead I sit and stare lovingly at my computer screen, admiring the
way the sentences have formed tidy little blocks of paragraphs now that
I have pressed the 'justify' key. It is so beautiful that tears of
emotion prick my eyelids!
It is incongruous - but somehow I masochistically want to hang on to
this penultimate moment of suffering and I am strangely reluctant to
end it once and for all. Those two words will mark the end of a
familiar era; the culmination of desperate fumbling with my thesaurus;
the realisation that I have to eat; the necessity to wash, dress and go
out; the end of excuses for chain smoking; the awareness that my house
resembles a pig sty.
How can I bear to let it go?
Quite simply - I have decided that I am tired of pursuing the same
goal day in and day out. I am ready to experience the range of the
mundane activities of everyday living again. I want my boring old life
back. I want to eat, wash, dress, clean the house and give up
smoking.
During the years that I have spent writing this novel my neglected
children have left home, my faithful dog had died and my faithless
husband has divorced me. Each of these events has temporarily dampened
my spirits, has caused me to curl up into the foetal position and howl
like a baby. Each event has strengthened my resolve to stay at home,
iron underwear and bake scones for WI bazaars. I have even imagined
that I could cook hearty breakfasts and, clad in a floral dressing gown
and pink fluffy slippers, wave the family members off to work and
school with a cheery 'Have a good day darlings!'
But always common sense has prevailed and I have returned to the
writer's world of created reality. I have persuaded myself that 'doing
my own thing' is infinitely preferable - because I am basically very
very selfish. All writers are. It is what makes them writers.

"Why do you have to go to Latvia?"
My ex-husband's question three years ago seemed ridiculous because the
novel was set in Latvia. With complete lack of understanding, he said
that I should consult a travel brochure for the details I needed! How
stupid can you get? I thought about explaining his stupidity and then
decided against it because he has never responded positively to any
suggestion that he may be below average intelligence.
"Because I have to," I replied patiently (trying to pretend that the
question was not stupid) and turned a blind eye to his bared teeth and
rolling eyes. I am glad that he divorced me soon after. He was - and
still is - utterly unaware of my talent, and he doesn't deserve to be a
part of my impending success.
When I returned from Latvia he had left home with the offspring and
the dog.

I only hope that the divorce judge had a clear conscience when he
awarded my ex the house, dog, offspring and car. If he had been a
writer then he wouldn't have agreed with my ex that my behaviour was
'unreasonable.' I had to waste six months of precious writing time
looking for somewhere to live, crying about losing the offspring and
dog, and choosing a very cheap car. To this day I swear that my dog
died pining for me.
Yes - writing this novel has ruined my life. But at least now I know
that it was worth it - because I have come to the end of the most
brilliant piece of literature written since Tolstoy wrote 'War and
Peace.' It will make me famous and I will become legendary. People will
swarm round me in Sainsbury's and ask for my autograph. Magazines will
want to know what brand of washing powder I use. Sixth Form students
will analyse my novel and write extended essays on it. The Press will
hound me and try to find smut in my personal life. I will donate part
of my fortune to a dog's home and animal charities will feature my face
on their Christmas cards.
Oh yes - I am more than ready to type 'THE END.'

THERE! The deed is done! I have pressed the necessary keys and the
words 'THE END' loom in bold, Times New Roman font on the screen of my
computer. A weight lifts from my shoulders and there are strange
flutters in my tummy. I wait breathlessly for the feeling of
bereavement that I have thought would accompany this moment, but to my
delight it is not there! All I feel is sheer and utter relief. I feel
my lips stretch into the first smile that I have smiled for five years.
I am free. It is over!
I reach for the Champagne and vaguely register from the warmth of the
bottle that I must have left it rather near to the radiator. But it
doesn't matter - because my urge to celebrate is now so strong that I
would drink it if it had been left on the cooker. The silver foil that
covers the neck of the bottle comes away easily in my hands and the
wire that secures the cork untwists without resistance. My thumbs find
the base of the cork and I push it as hard as I can, desperate now to
feel the bubbles tickle the back of my throat. A loud 'POP' resounds
through the room. I reach for the long-stemmed glass that I have placed
at the side of my keyboard. I move the bottle toward it and notice that
white froth is escaping from its neck&;#8230;..
My mouth drops open in horror as the froth erupts like lava from a
volcano and descends in the area to the left of the glass. I leap to my
feet, not knowing what I intend to do because it is too late to
anything. The froth hits the keyboard with a sizzling splash and I
watch helplessly as it turns to the liquid that should have been in my
now dry mouth. I step back and scream.
Through my tears I see that where I had typed 'THE END' now
reads
"V4\%^(;'[."
Frantically I scroll the page upwards and try to make some sense of
what I have been writing for the last six years, but all I see are
strange symbols and muddled letters. I sink down onto my chair and bury
my head in my hands, wondering why I hadn't pressed the SAVE key before
I had opened the Champagne.

When I awake it is dawn and the screen of my computer is dark. I
wonder fleetingly if the loss of my manuscript has been a dream. Then I
see the bottle and know that it wasn't. The hope that the keyboard will
have dried out fires my fingers and I move the mouse in anticipation of
seeing my novel restored to its former glory.
I read, "F.>?/;poiU KjCR;@." That was supposed to be the title of
Chapter 4. It is really lost, I concede. And at such great
cost&;#8230; For a long moment I too am lost.

It is dawn - a new day. My despair has evoked my anger and my anger
has made me creative again. I pour the now flat Champagne into the
long-stemmed glass and I sip it. It deserves to be drunk warm and flat
after the pain it has caused me. I immediately begin to feel its effect
and I open a 'New Document.' I must begin again. I feel as inspired as
I did nearly six years ago - and my blood is like fire in my veins as I
type the words,
"LOVE IN LATVIA.
CHAPTER 1."
If it's pointless crying over spilt milk, then it must also be
pointless crying over spilt Champagne.