It is a truth universally acknowledged (though let it be said, one rarely discussed), that a person past a certain age mustn’t go around fiddling with her pillow arrangement unless she is is wont of the kind of backache that hurts under her arm. For this is indeed what I did: I swapped the pillows on the right side of the bed for those on my side of the bed and all hell broke loose for I am a veritable geriatric these days and never mind jumping out our aeroplanes, even getting dangerous with the goose feathers is cause for bodily crisis.
So I am hobbling like a crooked old lady, shoving the hoover around with the wrong arm and fending off what promises to be a banger of a cold. by basting myself in Vicks Vapour Rub and chugging down soluble Vitamin C as if it were a rather excitable glass of Prosecco at a bottomless brunch. My life is nothing if not an absolute riot of joy and self-inflicted drama. Sooooo much to be grateful for!
Anyways. In between snorting and grunting and groaning and moaning, I am haunting RightMove in search of a new home that is neither financially impossible or aesthetically repulsive. (Which is about as fun as the hell that is online dating, with the same set of hidden liabilities lurking and oh so likely to disappoint). That said I have narrowed things down to two particular areas of possibility and now consider myself to be in the “talking” stage of dating a new house: digging for clues that all is as it should be and there are no dead bodies in the freezer.
I wasn’t cut out for any of this really. I have got dodgy taste in both men and houses and in both regards, mistakes have been made as I tend to choose attractive bones over good and sensible ones and reap the consequences in ludicrous behaviour and leaky rooves, and frankly chances are I will do it again, because this time I am being left entirely to my own devices and could frankly end up living in the prettiest of shacks just off the local tip while dating a man as tall as he says he is but in possession of peculiar taste in politics, pies and potential bedroom shenanigans.
It’s a worry. In the meantime, at precisely five to midnight last night I got adventurous and ordered myself an electric toothbrush. So at any minute an Amazon man could come hurtling up the path and fling the blasted thing at me me. Because I have never been an electric toothbrush kinda woman. The vibrations in my head feel akin to a juddery rollercoaster and I leave the bathroom shaky and spooked by shoving my equilibrium out of sorts with exotic dentistry, But needs must as peri-menopause has done a number on my gums and rumour has it having a head perpetually vibrated half-way to derangement is an excellent way to start resolving matters, so an electric toothbrush it is.
This is of course cause for celebration, for it is rare that I step out of my comfort zone to such extreme degree so in honour of the occasion I have baked a flapjack and spent much of the afternoon staring at another of my new toys: a tiny little room thermometer that tells me both what the temperature is and rather thrillingly, the humidity of the room I am in, so hours can be justifiably lost to trying out various configurations of radiator heat and pretend diddy stove heat and getting positively giddy about how the humidity goes flying up in the far away room when the roof leaks. I’m not sure I’ve ever had a more exciting afternoon! Though it should be clear to all who know her that I am now but one fruit-friend away from Miranda-hood and will no doubt be found shaking my maracas and pretending my electric toothbrush is a microphone while I warble “All By Myself” and impersonate Amanda from the general York-Shire area, any day now…
Gosh. That was a bit niche wasn’t it? Do forgive me. I am a woman under the influence of cold medication and I’m about to mix things up with one of those sticky heat pad thingies slapped under my arm and thereafter forego the vegan burger doused in sauerkraut and blue cheese I had planned for my evening meal in favour of a toasty bowl of beef broth assigned to sick people. served up with the very last of the olive sourdough that makes me swoon merely by way of existing
Tonight then. The heat hiked up to the sort of temperature that achieves excellent balance between cosy and not likely to have the wallpaper peeling off, and a blissful few hours spent choosing things. Oh how I love choosing things! I have joined a new library and its Borrowbox is far superior to the last and so I am choosing a month’s worth of lovely reading. Then I am going to hop around the channels and fill up my TV planner, browse the virtual aisles of a supermarket with shopping list in hand and indulge myself choosing things I will never buy from shopping sites I don’t approve of just for the joy of knowing that someone somewhere is making teeny tiny sieves you can stretch over a tin of beans like a hat to drain them. I could happily dream a life away choosing anything but houses and men for one almost never suffers decision fatigue choosing a bean strainer and pressing download on a book that will PROBABLY CHANGE MY LIFE (for all books must come with such grandiose promise ) is much easier than choosing sanctuary for heart, home or my frankly ridiculous collection of pound-shop spectacles.
There is I think, always a part of me that hopes January lasts for always. And no more so, than this one, when I am so very aware of change on the horizon for a heart aching for stability. But for tonight at least, there is this, all of this to be oh so grateful for. A candlelit bath in Christmas oils. Salty butter spread over excellent bread. Another chapter from my current cosy mystery (no doubt preceded by an hour long search for the only pair of aforementioned glasses I actually like, which will of course, turn out to be on my head). A dabble with said exotic dentistry. And a mind certain that there is no hurry to throw myself into a whole new life when this one is so very cosy tonight, and fiddling with my goose feathers will only be to my detriment.