Well, dammit

Here’s the first draft of a story:

The windows were open and music was drifting in and it dawned on Jay that it was live music not someone’s radio. Maybe someone was having a party. It sounded like classics from the 90’s and 00’s, a varied selection of sing-alongs.
It was no good, she couldn’t concentrate, she’d finish later; she had trouble enough sleeping and she’d work into the early hours to get the paper finished. She turned to look out of the window; sitting at her desk she was pretty sure she could observe the comings and goings of people in the village without being seen – not that she wished to spy, but she didn’t want to appear that person who never had visitors and just looked out at the world somewhat forlornly.
Maybe she’d have a cup of tea, or maybe a glass of wine. The music made her feel restless, the thought of people gathered together with friends… As she went downstairs she wondered whether to leave the stairs uncarpeted, stain the wood maybe, it would be easier than having to decide what colour to have the runner. In the past compromising on choice of furnishings and design had been an annoyance, now it was all down to her and she felt overwhelmed by it.
What’s the matter with me, why can’t I decide anything, why have I lost my confidence? She knew the answer to that of course. New name, new identity, new life – it had not been her choice, but it had seemed an opportunity which had excited her in an unexpected way. Saying goodbye to the past, to her past…
She had stopped on the bottom stair, her mind had wandered.
She didn’t want a cup of tea, she didn’t want a cup of coffee, she would go out, she would trail round the village and track the music for no real reason other than just being outside and active. She grabbed her bag and keys, checked the back door was locked, all the windows closed and she left the house.
She turned down the path which ran beside her house and led to the narrow footbridge over the stream; it wasn’t a stream, it was a rhyne, she had been told by an old person she had got in conversation with. A rhyne it seemed was a drainage channel; this rhyne led down to the River Ox which within half a mile entered the sea.
Jay emerged onto the High Street and it became clear that the music wasn’t from a party but from the pub. Jay had been in the pub, The Otter, a couple of times for lunch. She would have liked to go down in the evening, she would have done in her past life, but now something was different. No not something, everything.
Well, dammit, she would go down, find a place to sit discreetly and listen to the band and enjoy a drink.

I have no idea where this is going, except there are a couple of ideas I’ve been nursing for a while which could take root!!

My featured image is of a band my husband was in – Celtic Shambles. Celtic was the genre, shambles was the way they played! That was a joke because they were in fact very good, and always popular and had a good gig.