By Ten 0'Clock In The Morning

Monday morning. Another round in the whirligig of life. Lie in bed listening to lorries thunder by. Decide to be the kind of woman who gets up early and snuggle down futher under a rose strewn quilt. Worry for a while. Banishing each individual worry to the back of your mind while stroking a foot up your left calf and finding it decidedly hairy. Hairy legs feel nice. Debate starting a fashion. Yawn.

Get up. Walk to the bathroom and stare in astonishment at half an eyebrow where a whole one used to be. Decide to be the kind of woman who attends regular professional beauty treatments while drawing in the rest of your left brow with a kohl pencil. Smudge it and quickly lose interest, taking a moment to re-fold a pile of immaculately folded creamy towels. Wonder why your babba hasn’t got out of bed yet. Creep downstairs in princess nightie and shabby pink cardigan and make a milky vanilla coffee and drink it standing up in the quiet dark kitchen. Dwell.

Stand in front of list for today and add three more must be dones. Spend five minutes rubbing at a purple stain on the cream kitchen counter then find yourself consumed by panic. Why isn’t he up yet? Run up the stairs two at a time and stand breathless by his bed watching his little chest rise and fall and running a hand across his warm little cheeks. Smile at him. Pick him up and carry him sleepy down the stairs to a cosy armchair and a cup of hot milk. Refuse to allow Noddy to disturb the peace and allow it to be disturbed instead by childs wails of rebellious anguish. Escape.

Hide in the kitchen. Make tiny slithers of french toast for him and swallow down pineapple probiotic yourself and feel virtuous for all of a minute.  Pack library bag. Pack school bag. Dress in crisp white shirt and nectarine coloured wool vest. Apply copious amounts of gloss in an effort not to scare your public.  Shove child into car. Run back into house to blow out candles. Resolve to be the kind of woman who doesn’t have to call the fire engines more than once a year. Drive.

Park. Wave at traffic warden through gritted teeth. Say hello to Mommies in big black cars. Wonder at the repitition that is all of our lives. Choose a new nursery library book: No, Said Joe. Agree to have lunch with a passing Mommy. Look down and find sobbing child attached to your leg. Offer him the heart shaped locket with your picture in you carry for such emergencies. Wipe extremely snotty nose. Lead him to sandpit. Kiss him and run out leaving his screams behind you. Grab passing man and ask him to go see if child is still on the verge of a breakdown. Reassure teacher that there is nothing wrong at home and that this is a new game. Bite back tears. Nod when man tells you child is laughing uproariously at small girl dressed as a dragon. Thank man. Cry.

Drive to local council office. Demand to see someone. Shout about incompetance. Stamp your feet a little bit. Apologise. Go and sit in car and ring Mum. Moan a lot. Laugh a lot. Agree life is a bucket of old nonsense and go and buy box of cakes oozing with cream for lunch with nursery Mommy. Listen to Pina Colada on an old radio channel in the car. Sing loudly all by yourself. Feel strangely content. Feel mildly exhausted and head to library to your new friends: old men who google aeroplanes and the second world war. Feel mildly intoxicated by old man in delicious aftershave. Get a grip of yourself. Fire up the machine and write about your morning, fingers whizzing across the keyboard. Wonder why. Feel mildly appalled at your self indulgence. Tell yourself it is writing practice, spoken out loud. Because you are living out loud. Decide to be the kind of woman who has something to say. Giggle.