If we were having coffee together I’d already be distracted, trying to lay my hands on the pieces of paper with the first half of this post on. I’d tell you how I’ve enjoyed the sheer ‘ordinariness’ reading similar posts of Irene Waters as she updates followers with household exploits, puppy training and writing updates. #WeekendCoffeeShare is hosted by Diana over at Part Time Monster – I like the easy, chatty way of it, so I’d started a few notes at the beginning of the week – almost a diary, but as we’re having coffee in public, I’d planned to leave out family bickering and other trivial negatives and stick with the graceful, elegant features of our lives.
But I’ve lost the damn thing for now, so make your own coffee while I look in the IKEA bag I hide my writing stuff in before the cleaner arrives.
Ah here it is..
We’ve been sorting out the house a bit and the three Ikea bags that had become my ‘tidy-my-office-away-when-the-cleaner-comes-near-permenant-solution’ had been reduced to the one I’m busy hunting through.
I reorganised filing and things had homes! Several archaeological layers down, I rediscovered Max’s childhood – a sock puppet, a Mr Mime Pokemon given to me for good luck doing exams 4 years ago, school photos and cute love notes from my expressive boy. If we were having coffee I would reassure you that he confesses to never reading my blog so it doesn’t matter what secrets I tell you..
In the ‘Grand Tidy-Up’ Simon and I filled a large box with notepads and solemnly resolved to not buy any more until we die – and probably not after either. (Most of these weren’t even bought but come from hotel and conference rooms, posh meetings – opportunistic acquisition from the household Mr Krabs.)
If we were having coffee I would tell you I then had to write another post on a tiny palm-sized pad of paper found in the glove box of my car – between dropping Simon at the station and going to pilates.
Tuesday night I slept badly having not quite finished my review of “When Breath Becomes Air.” Haunted again. And I needed to change the tone so as not to seem negative about a good book. Not sleeping well, Darth Vader assumed I might like to chat or play with him at about 3 in the morning. Cute as that was, I had to be firm as he’s usually well aware that he stays at my feet until I speak..
So Wednesday morning ended up frantic as we had a train to catch – finishing the post – iPhone calendar alerts going off – bong -to remind me of last minute ironing, cat and hen food to sort, tickets to remember. There was NO contingency time left to shave off the white bobbles all over a favourite teenager’s hoody having cocked up the wash with a tea towel that’s falling to bits. I was sweating by the time we left the house. Made the train with one minute to spare.
We saw Glenn Close in Sunset Boulevard at the London Coliseum – I’m not the authority on this sort of thing. I enjoyed it. Simple. I did think the audience, largely composed of middle-aged and older male couples were a bit over the top with the constant “Bravo! Bravo!” but all that added to my cultural experience and appreciation of a near 70 year old Diva giving a bloody good account of herself. But the resident 17 year old theatre aficionado had something to say about a slight wobble on a couple of high notes and much more besides. In the end we did all agree Imelda Staunton was better in Gypsy but that wasn’t the point. (I can tell you all this because he won’t read this post)
For those of you who don’t know, Simon works in London but we live in Yorkshire, in the UK, so he stays down in the week in a rented studio flat. We get into one with actual bedrooms in June which will be a relief. Anyway, during Wednesday, Simon had gone down with some sort of lurgy and was not well. Max still had a cold, so the two of them coughing, snuffling and snoring in a studio flat meant for another bad night – for me.
By Thursday morning Simon was properly ill looking. Even dosed up on paracetamol he was green-with-a-sheen but I dragged him into John Lewis to respond to the bong on my calendar alerts to check out carpets for the flat we get in June, before catching a train back up North.
Back up North and another bong remind me to get The Campine off her nightly perch to check for suspected lice. I’m paranoid after she nearly died from gapeworm last year and we’re down to just 2 hens after a recent dog attack so Rocky’s pal has to survive. Anyway, the poor traumatised hen had simply been picking at new feather quills on her chest and nothing more.
Yesterday Simon stayed in bed and while Max was writing an essay on The Great Gatsby, I snuck into town on the pretence of provisioning the house. I was just trying on a dress in M&S when another bong sounded – Dentist appointment for Max – One hour’s notice, 40 mins from home.
Long story short: Theatre Aficionado had to wake Green-with-a-Sheen to meet A-Notebook-Short-of-an-Ikea-Bag-Office in a lay-by half way, as there wasn’t time to drive back and forth and keep the appointment.
If we were having coffee I’d thank you for listening and suggest you sit a bit further away now, as I’ve been gargling soluble aspirin and think I’m going down with the lurgy.