A long, moody Sunday, remarkable only for the flow of the deeply splendid ordinary. Laundry hung on the line and a chicken roasting in the oven. Potatoes already par-boiled and roughed up in goose fat and Himalayan salt.
First thing this morning, I was on my knees cleaning out the bathroom cupboard. A fierce energy that saw me dragging out long lost bottles of useless shampoo and too many Lush bath bombs to count. Who knew I had so many? I could have the most explosive of hot baths!
Instead, I took a long shower. Scrubbing myself head to foot in the zesty pick-me-up that is lemon and peppermint, and then pulling on my trainers to go walking before the overgrown child had even considered opening his eyes. Saying hello to the same faces, and wondering for all the world whether I am part of the cast of The Truman Show and that is why it would be quite possible to set my clock by the woman in the purple anorak.
Home again. To stand in the kitchen window, watching my favourite pigeons (we all have favourite pigeons don’t we??) having a domestic rook and then to open the green back door and stare at them in disappointment as they dislodge the moss growing in the conservatory gutters and chuck it into my path. Tutting at their dramatics as I sweep around the garden and lug bin-bags full of the nonsense I have been decluttering, to the wheelie bins. Determined to rid myself of all that no longer matters. For clarity, and calm. My own mind!
Ah the splendid ordinary. A smoothie of mango, pineapple and flaxseed. A thorough scrub of a kitchen sink that is experiencing way too much life now the dishwasher has died. The fielding of endless, heartfelt calls and texts. A cornflake cake Finley considers life, thrown together and popped into the fridge. Candles lit. Cloths disinfected and tea-towels refreshed. Finley pressing a kiss on to the top of my head as he leaves for an afternoon in Alana’s Auntie’s house. A weird fascination with Damiano David (or Damian Dave as I have taken to calling him in my head!) that has me playing I Wanna Be Your Slave over and over again, often stopping duster in hand to stare at him. In something that may or may not be lust (blush). All of it and too many cups of Earl Grey to count.
Now. Late afternoon and the sky is shaking. The whole living room flashing electric with lightening. I have never liked thunder. But today I sit in the front window of the house and watch the sky crack over the terraced cottages across the lane and worry for the drunk man standing stock still in the violent rain and wobbling in bewilderment. I have realised lately that I worry too much. That my reactions to all manner of situations are exaggerated and that what other people see as ludicrous or meaningless I experience as catastrophic. Thunder passes and lightening so very rarely strikes us if we choose to stay out of its path so it is time for me to choose to feel safe and unthreatened by what cannot hurt me, no matter how vicious it might appear to my silly, vulnerable heart.
Now. Every lamp in the house lit. The potatoes a gorgeous golden brown and the kitchen smelling as kitchens should on a Sunday afternoon. Cosy and warm. If not quite seasonal. Tonight, a Billie Piper film described as a deliciously deadpan anti-rom-com. Cinnamon popcorn and my favourite boy.
It is enough for now. This splendid ordinary of ours. Though the week ahead will not be what I hoped, tonight I have all that I need, Ste closer now to calm and the last of Finn’s Summer holidays already begun, so that late mornings and easy days will be ours for the next two months.
It is enough.
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