My hands smell of onion. Despite a bath and numerous old wives remedies, still the sweet stench of the pale pink Rosanna onion will not be ousted. Through the night it disturbs my dreams, my eyes flicking open too frequently to squint at the fingers I have brought up to my face. When I finally do fall asleep, the neighbor’s car alarm wakes me up for the fourth night running, and a little piece of me wants to cry, or appear at his bedside, Marley like and bash him over the head. This propensity for fantasy about violent retribution for the most minor of discrepancies must be quashed and soon, before I take leave of my senses and do something I will regret…
I have spent the weekend playing nurse maid to Rich who has endured an operation and cannot get comfortable no matter how hard he tries. For a man who squeals at the most minor assault on his person, he has astounded me with his bravado in the face of something so invasive and has to be reminded frequently to rest. To not believe he is Superman, to give his body time to recover from the outrage, and to understand that now probably isn’t the time to climb on to the roof to inspect a chimney seeping damp on to our bedroom walls.
So it was a weekend of books and Jonathan Creek on Netflix. Leek and potato soup, cheese on toast laden with pale pink onions and wasabi peas nibbled at every opportunity. Finley was at Daddy’s and on Saturday at Nana’s and so the house was unusually grey: displaying in it’s quietude, how shabby it has become, how much needs to be done before it has to enjoy it’s annual festive face-lift.
And now it is the first rainy Monday of a two week half-term. I have tied my invalid to the sofa and insisted that he keeps his pale-faced self there and Finley and I are off to a scooter lesson, or to re-phrase that, my friend Karen and I, are accompanying our boys while they enjoy a lesson and we enjoy a gossip. I do believe the very idea of me trying to do snazzy tricks on a scooter could have you guffawing and splurting your
For I am slow and heavy. Pre-menstrual. Desperate for sleep, and peace and solitude. And my damn hands still stink of onion.
Lord help my neighbour, should his car alarm play silly beggars tonight. I cannot be held responsible for my actions.