I’m sitting in the dark of the junk room - the last person standing in the house as the new day arrives. I’m listening to “Seasons of Love” from the original cast recording of “Rent”. Love this song.
I’m trying to write more often, but find myself filtering more than ever. It’s a strange situation to find myself in - given that I used to be such an open book.
I sometimes dip back into blog posts from years gone by, and wonder at the little things - the daily happenings shared with the unknown audience. I wish I could get back to that.
Let’s try.
My coffee machine blew up yesterday. It was one of those nice Nescafe Dolce Gusto machines that take pods and fill your cup with frothy coffee. I put a branded “Starbucks” pod in it - which caused it to choke on its own steam, and turn itself into a working copy of Stephenson’s Rocket. There was an almighty bang, whereupon it ejected not only its own water reservoir, but also the glass mug I had balanced in front of it.
I recoiled from the machine on the B of Bang, and then watched in slow motion as the glass mug slowly rolled towards the edge of the kitchen counter and began it’s death plunge towards the tiled floor.
The glass mug made a strangely tuneful sound as it impacted the floor - instantly shattering into pieces no larger than your little finger nail - and spreading itself in all directions - tinkling as it went.
I swore. A lot.
And of course I was bare foot - surrounded by invisible razor-sharp shards of glass. How I didn’t cut my feet to pieces is still a mystery.
Today my other half accidentally knocked over a clothes drying rack that our eldest daughter had left out. The metal rack fell across my bare feet. Yes, I’m usually barefoot. The pain was sickening.
I swore. Spectacularly.
I find myself swearing a lot at the moment. Not always out-loud. You know that scene in the first Harry Potter movie where Snape is muttering things under his breath to prevent Quirrel from getting at Harry? That’s me, pretty much every day - hanging on to being outwardly cheerful and optimistic by inwardly festering all manner of spite and annoyance.
Anyway.
It’s half-past my bedtime.
Time to go brush my teeth, and see if I can have as whacky dreams as I had last night. I think most of them happened in the half hour between waking up, realising it was the weekend, and then waking up again. I do that a lot.
I might try and escape to the pub in town for breakfast. I need to escape for a bit. Find a little bit of “me” time before another week comes barrelling down the pipe towards me.