Most of the time, I am fine with my life. Take this morning's small moments of horror -
- the small patch of dog sick, cunningly disguised to look like biscuit crumbs until a quick, ungloved sweeping action reveals the truth
- the half-dead slug, intestines crushed just by the front door as fate, in the form of a postman in a hurry, ends its bid to join the family circle via the letter box
- a year's worth of the children's discarded lollies, thoughtully arranged behind the sofa cushions, stick upwards for easier access
- the phone call about this year's nativity play: could I transcribe the Doctor Who theme so it sounds convincing on a piano.
I can deal with them all (apart from the Dr Who theme) with only minimal dry retching, something I regard as something of an achievement and possibly worth a bullet point or two on an updated cv.
Then I get an e-mail from a friend, who now works in London, a place I visit so infrequently that it has taken on a mythological quality.
I'm not even sure it still exists. For all I know it could by now be under 50 feet of water because of global warming, the drowned chimes of Big Ben still faultlessly reproduced on Radio 4 (though I suppose the rust would affect the tone quality in the end).
"Why don't you join me for coffee in Mayfair?" she asks.
Why not, indeed? After all, what is a part-time job, three children and a slug-ridden house but a series of mental barriers that I have erected to ensure that my inner hedonist is denied a voice.
And perhaps if I get the slug stuffed in time, it can join me, tucked into my buttonhole as a post-ironic nosegay.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
9 comments:
A post-ironic nosegay. I'll have to remember that one next time I see a slug.
Lol...I loved the bit about adding your accomplishments to your CV...only a mother would appreciate the magnitude of these bullit pointed on a CV! Bet the slug broach went down a storm...
Brilliant!
This is about the things that happen but pretend they don't.
Oh,the glamour!
I'd forget the slug post ironic nosegay thing - it would probably just look slimy and unpleasant. But I'm so jealous. The nearest I get to Mayfair these days is the Monopoly box.
Mya x
tucked into my buttonhole as a post-ironic nosegay
My God woman! If you don't write a novel and become a bestseller, then I'm going to hock one of my children, buy a ticket to England, track you down and knock you soundly about the head and shoulders until you submit to your literary calling.
My God woman! You can certainly write!
Oh poor you - slugs and all! I have been trying to compare a trodden-on slug and a pile of dog-sick on my repellance Richter scale - and haven't yet come up with an answer. I think
on the whole the dog-sick probably has it.... a slug after all, usually has the decency to stay outside.
I think you should have been with us yesterday, Merry Weather, Marianne and I, when we met up for lunch in the vicinity of the Macauley house. Such fun we had, talking blog-talk and putting the world to rights - next time, we'll invite you to come along too!
Mayfair?
In place of dog sick, dead slugs and other routines of daily life?
No brainer. Get there and enjoy!
Iota: Slugs and irony. A marriage made in heaven.
DJ: They are really the most disgusting creatures.
FitF: My life is made up entirely of these incidents though I try to see them through the bottom of a wine glass if possible.
Mya: I know you're not really jealous. Besides, I haven't actually got there yet. I'm reasonably confident I won't this time, either.
IB: What fun. Did you meet in your end of garden writing boudoir?
Debio: Thanks for your good wishes and will do my best.
Interesting, now you've got me thinking about barriers my inner hedonist might have put up without me even knowing about them. Coffee in Mayfair sounds nice. I used to do that all the time and took it rather for granted. Now it sounds impossibly smart and glamorous. Hmm, suspect my inner hedonist has weakened of late.
Post a Comment