It’s Friday morning, and I find myself sitting at a table in the middle of Starbucks. It just occurred to me that today is Friday 13th. Isn’t it interesting how inconsequential hoodoo can stay with you – ready to resurrect itself at a moment’s notice.
I have Friday and Monday off work. A break. A long weekend. Shortly before leaving the house I put the washing machine on. Is it sad that the prospect of a day off triggered an urge within me to clear any chores before the weekend arrives?
The long weekend was originally to visit my parents on the coast. After agreeing the time off, and agreeing the visit with my parents, I realised that this weekend was our anniversary. And then two of our daughters landed a world of drama on us – the kind of drama where you clear the calendar in order to “be there just in case”. I wonder if children ever realise how many times their parents throw themselves under the bus without their knowledge?
In a parallel universe I’m sitting on the train to Liskeard, rumbling towards deepest darkest Cornwall for a couple of days – or more probably standing because the train company can’t find their arse with both hands.
Starbucks is an oddly soul-less place. It doesn’t have the friendly feel of the cafe my daughters work at. I can’t put my finger on why. A playlist is being piped throughout the seating areas – playing the likes of Joshua Radin and Katie Melua – the imagined soundtrack of endless angst-filled tv-shows from the 2000s.
(half an hour passes)
I’m back at home now. Washing machine emptied, washing on the line, machine back on again.
My middle daughter just called with bad news from the army recruitment office. She’s been on a mission to lose weight and get fit for the last couple of months – looks like her journey will continue for another month or more. Guess who’s resisting the temptation to throw his hat in the ring – to offer to run with her every morning over the months ahead. To be honest, it gives me a good excuse too, but I wonder if it’s better for her to find it in herself rather than be pushed.
(another half an hour passes)
I’ve de-camped to the living room, tidied up, convinced the cats it would be a good idea to go away, and now Shania is singing about how somebody is still the one she wants on the record player.
The sun shining. The house is half-way tidy. This won’t last, will it. It never does.