Not for me…

I was almost off to bed when I was struck by the urge to scribble.

I don’t know why. It just happens that way sometimes, like an itch that keeps moving until you have scratched most of the skin from your shoulders and back leaving you bleeding.

To be honest though it had been a long day at the glass face and I really couldn’t be arsed, itch or no itch.

But then the blue pencil crayon that had been lurking on the kitchen work surface watching me all evening was in my hand and my scrap book opened almost of it’s own accord. Yes, I have a book now, I’m progressing. The crayon frenetically scratched a couple of ovals onto the surface and the pink felt tip from the pound shop packet flew and flurried its pink on the paper.

Wet ink thrown here, a squiggle of silver straight from the tube there, and in less than five minutes there it was, or rather there they were.

Mother and child.

I’ve no idea why, they're not for me you see. I don’t believe and the last thing I want to spend my time doodling, when really I want to be asleep, are schmaltzy, sentimental, Christmas cardy drawings of mothers and babies, holy or not.

I still did it though – scribbled and blew and splashed - guilty as charged m'lord.

I wonder why?

Perhaps it wasn’t for me at all.

Perhaps it was for someone else. For them maybe, or perhaps it was for you.