Wednesday, May 15, 2013
It’ll be great they said, all the time in the world to do what you’ve always wanted to do – to take life just as it comes, to travel the world, anywhere that takes your fancy, to loll around all day in your pyjamas if you so desire, time to venture into the unknown so to speak, take up new hobbies, things you’ve always wanted to do but never had the time, explore new interests, grow your own veggies, become completely self-sufficient, how exciting … you’re SO lucky, they said.
Have you any plans, I ask.
A man of few words. You must have some ideas? Slight note of desperation in my voice. No, I don’t. I think I’ll do absolutely nothing for a few months. Give myself time to get used to having all this time. Relax, take it easy.
I gave him 6 months, in my head. Generous to a fault. I was going to be a paragon of virtue for 6 whole months, tolerance on legs, happy go lucky, isn’t life wonderful when you have intruders in your space, no mean achievement for even the most stoic of individuals. That is 180 days or thereabouts which is approximately 4320 hours, a third of which, 1430hours, I would, hopefully, be blissfully unaware of in the land of nod. That left 2890 hours during which I promised to be on my best behaviour.
Just over half way through the thousands of hours, the resolve is slipping a little, the halo slightly tarnished, the temper a little less than sweetness personified. Three months in and his life is most definitely in danger; big, dirty, black danger. The chair by the window that normally accommodates my weary bones is now no longer available. Ever. I’ll roll in after a mornings work and hover meaningfully … all to no avail. Sensitive, new age man, me arse. Will you have a cup of tea, I ask. He never drinks tea. Well sure, if you’re making one, I will. Jesus wept. This from the depths of my chair by the window, looking out on my garden with my birds twittering and singing to their heart’s content. Insult to injury. The tea is dutifully made. Courtesy and grace are somewhat lacking. He is happily unaware of the rising athmospheric pressure. I, to my credit, stop short of sulking. Tea drunk, back off out to the working world. Blue-arsed fly imitation for the rest of the daylight hours. My speciality. Later in the day, I approach the kitchen, thinking it’s mine now, where’s the crossword, have a pen, kettle’s just boiled.
He’s in the chair.
It’s my turn, I scream. Silently. It doesn’t matter that it’s a scream because he is snoring. Head back, mouth open, less than melodic noises escaping from the depths. Ah, I hear his mother speaking in my head. Sure he works so hard, poor man. He must be tired. She has her own chair, by a window too, which requires a papal dispensation for anyone other than her ladyship to park their bones in. She doesn’t have to do battle with the niceties of selfishness. Master of illusion, I mutter. Used to work so hard, I growl. Will I smother him with the red or the blue cushion? I could do it really quickly. He wouldn’t feel a thing. I indulge myself with misty dreams of a constantly vacant chair by the window, the sun shining through sparkling glass, the tantalising aroma of a dinner that I had no part in preparing, the pink pigs flying by.
I let it go.
I’m bigger than that.
Only another 2100 hours to go.
Friday, May 10, 2013
I wonder sometimes what makes people want to blog. To portray themselves as someone. With a life or without a life. It doesn't really matter. It has been a while since I wrote anything on my blog. I have thought about my lack of enthusiasm on and off and reasoned with myself. Made excuses even. Too busy. Nothing to say. Why bother. Who cares. Life is shite sometimes. And then theres no room for idle wondering. Anyway. The last year or so has been a time of change. Unsettling. Restless. Isolating. But today the light went on again. Which has me here dithering. I could write about the dismal hole in my heart gouged out by the death of my beloved Larry. But death happens, it is an inevitable part of living. I could write about another of life's inevitabilities. The empty nest. Even as I type that I can feel myself snoring at the thought of it. It happens. I could write about the delights of having the newly retired offering me cups of tea 500 times a day. I could also write about the weather. The choice is endless. There lies the crux. I never was good at making decisions.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Its been a while.
Tempus fugit etc.
I'm wondering what I'm doing back here. I'm also wondering why I stopped coming here in the first place.
Thats a lot of wondering. Or wandering even.
A lot has happened in the year that I've been wondering or wandering.
Two of the offspring have gone to the other side of the world to spread their wings and not a backward glance between them. There is a tiny voice inside of me that screams "don't go so far away" but it disappears into the air.
The last of the offspring, in his final year, watching his siblings fly, is champing at the bit to test his own wings.
I didn't ever think when I was in the throes of rearing children that they would eventually grow up and want to fly so very far away.
How blind was I?
The house is rattlingly empty.
I miss them.
I want to leap to the other side of Xmas so I don't feel anything remotely resembling loneliness.
What right have I to feel this way when I have two of the offspring coming?
But I still feel like jumping.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Last year we had a quiet house. Just GB, myself and one of the offspring. The two peacocks off about their business, one in sunny Spain and the other residing with his lady love in the same city but it might as well have been on a different planet. There was no oonce-oonce music, no damp towels gathering mould under beds, no size 12's lying around waiting to be tumbled over, no dirty dishes growing mould beside the couch. Tasty edibles always available. It was very nice. And quiet.
But, now, they are back. The fruit of my loins, the reason for my existence for so many years, for various reasons, have returned to the nest. Oh joy of joys.
The damp towels are breeding. The bedrooms seldom see the light of day before noon. The oonce-oonce is a constant background rumble. The fridge is always empty. The lights are on all the time. The dog is ecstatic. The friends call constantly for entertainment and to help empty the aforementioned fridge. Late nights. Sore heads. These things, you might say are all part and parcel of family life. And you would be right.
But you know what drives me crazy?
The 27 odd socks that I counted today.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Funny how a seemingly innocuous, random, run-of-the mill visit to a medicine man can stop you in your tracks and turn everything slightly upside down, inside out and every which way but the way you expect it to be.
Today, as I closed the surgery door behind me, I watched my life passing me by as I waited for it to begin.
Auto-immune disorder. No cure. Live with it.
Bring on the dancing girls, raise high the roof beams, throw off the winter woollies, smell the rain, shake off the hibernating cobwebs.
To hell with the to-do lists, I'm busy breathing.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Monday, November 30, 2009
Today is the last day of November.
Tomorrow I don't have to post if I don't want to.
That's the way it should be.
Not that I didn't enjoy the month.
But having a low boredom threshold with myself and my wonderings, it'll be good to just visit and comment on other people's blogs instead of blathering on and on about me.
So, as and from tomorrow, I'm zoning out; off to wander around the blogs of visitors that I have shamelessly neglected for the duration of Nabloblahblah.
I'm looking forward to it.
Thanks for visiting!