Having ripped open my scars for all the blog to see, I washed the dishes, tidied and hoovered a bedroom, did two loads of laundry and went by train the the Edinburgh Museum of Childhood. I was feeling pretty bad, but The Artist's Way is strict about taking yourself on on artist's dates, which so far I had neglected to do. And I thought going out would make me feel better anyway.
The train ride and the first floor of the Edinburgh Museum of Childhood were pretty ho-hum. The gift shop--at the very front--was uninspiring and the display about child miners was exceedingly depressing, and the disused Punch and Judy (and the Baby) looked a little creepy. The second floor, with its toy theatres and 19th century moving pictures and what have you, was not really my cup of tea either. But then I turned around and beheld some very intriguing dollhouses. And all of a sudden, I realized that there was a small ginger-haired child beside me.
"Hey ho, Outer Adult," said the moppet. "Now we're getting somewhere. Cars, schmars. Pre-war dollhouses are AWESOME. Wouldn't it be cool if we had a dollhouse that looked like the Historical House? That would be soooo AWESOME!"
"Where the Sam Hill have you been?" I said, outraged. "What about The Bodis Ripper? I promised Bettina it would be finished, and you took off to who knows where for who knows how long."
"Where's my It-bag, girlfriend?" said the Inner Child. "I told you this would happen if you went back to SCHOOL, and you have been going to SCHOOL for over two years. TWO YEARS of sz, cz, dzi, ay-aw, and no time for me. Fuddle that shaving cream. Ooooh! The lady who used to own that house has left the doll's biography."
"Lemme see," I said. "Woot! Three husbands!"
"Frankly, Outer Adult," said the Inner Child. "This place sucks. Pardon my French. Except, of course, for the dollhouses and the tea sets, which are the only things that remind me of you when you were my age and normal. The dolls are okay. In fact, I recommend that dolls although NOT the voodoo ones which are super creepy. I mean the wax and bisque ones. And the gollies are a hoot."
So off we went to the Annex of the Dolls, and I have to admit it was pretty creepy: all those eyes staring glassily at us and the gollies grinning merrily at the thought of their politically incorrect existence, and then the "Dolls of the World" section with shrunken apple heads and black magic.
"Let's blow this popsicle stand," said the Inner Child. "You're a book person. Take me down to the Poetry Library and read me some Robert Louis Stevenson."
But the Poetry Library was closed.
"Huh! Shut on Mondays," said the Inner Child, rattling the door. "Well, let's go to Blackwell's then. They have a cool children's section. Let's look at the children's section."
So we went to the children's section, and after admiring the Usbourne slot-it-together skeleton, the Inner Child proposed looking at notebooks. We thought the Moleskine ones were as boring as usual, so I brought the Inner Child upstairs to see my current favourite.
"OMG!" shrieked the Inner Child. "It's, like, SOLID GOLD!"
"Well, not really. It just looks like---."
"It shuts with CLASPS! Real life CLASPS!"
"Yes," I admitted.
We practiced opening and shutting the book for a bit.
"The pages are lined though," I observed. "You know I never buy lined journals."
"I don't mind the lines," said the Inner Child in a sort of awed voice. "I like lines."
I looked at the book again.
"If we were to write stories in it every day until it is full...." I said slowly.
"OH THANK YOU OUTER ADULT THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU! Can I have some peacock-feather coloured pens, too?"
"Yes. This is my artist date, and I guess you are the artist I am treating."
"WOO-HOO!" said the Inner Child and did a little dance. And here she is to pass on a message. I will just scrunch over in my chair.
I AM THE INNER CHILD AND I ROOL! ROFL ROFL LOL!