Monday's Child

Monday’s Child

Monday's child is fair of face/ Tuesday's child is full of grace/Wednesday's child is full of woe/ Thursday's child has far to go/Friday's child is loving and giving/ Saturday's child works hard for a living/And the child that is born on the Sabbath day/Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.

(19th Century English Nursery Rhyme)

On a Monday, you wake up in your lonely bed to the tang of aircraft fuel and the roar of yet another early morning jet. You adjust your ineffective earplugs and wish you were Beyoncé, because she is a kickass queen whose legal team would have stopped that extra runway being built, and just because you are 52 and divorced and questioning your sexuality, why did the Good Lord have to rain this airport nonsense down on your parade, or rather on your lovely, unsaleable, home? You need a better plan than the last rumor you started about a forthcoming class action for noise abatement. That one had fizzled out following a public denial by both the airport authority and the government planning office.

You pull the duvet over your head and concentrate. What if the runway was being relocated because of climate activism and other nefarious re-zoning shit bubbling beneath the surface? Wouldn’t that be harder to deny? Everyone believes the word of the beautiful ones, like Beyoncé, but you are almost as credible, for you are the neighbor that everyone has known forever. You are locally beatified after because you got the bad end of a divorce settlement and no-one liked your husband much. Come to think of it, nor did you, but perhaps you weren't right for each other. This new plan has a chance, and so you leap out of bed, race downstairs, put the coffee on and phone a friend who phones a friend and, of course, it is only a rumor, but you have it on very good faith. When you catch sight of yourself in the hall mirror, you look less worn down and worried. You look OK in fact. Quite pretty. You hum ‘All the single ladies... all the single ladies’ as you shimmy round the kitchen island.

Two weeks later, on a Tuesday morning, a realtor calls. Are you considering putting your lovely home on the market because, well, she has heard that you might be and prices are favorable now due to the runway decision. You almost spill your coffee, but put it down on the kitchen island alongside your phone as you silently drop to your knees and say thank you Lord and then you get back up and pick up your mobile and ask when can we talk business? She says, well I’m free this morning and you say, perfect and at 11 am prompt, this goddess walks through the door. You forget about Beyoncé, suck in your tummy, and turn on the kettle even though you are really thinking cocktails. Then you tell this attractive forty-ish woman with spectacular breasts that you might consider selling and you cross your fingers as you drop a figure substantially higher than your worst-case scenario. This is doable, she says. We can make that figure work and I love your coffee. What blend do you use? You name drop the local artisan roasters and it happens to be her favorite too. You compliment her good taste in coffee. Then you comment on her lovely eyes and she blushes, and you think, well, I might be in with a chance here. This is a nice little interlude, and you know you shouldn’t lie to this sincere and rather gorgeous person, but you are certain that the Lord has filled you full of grace this day and given you full permission to stretch the truth and face the enormity of a fresh start. Anyway, you didn’t lie about her eyes and that is what really matters.

By Wednesday, the older lady opposite drops by to tell you that she has had it with all these planes and thank heavens for pesky climate activists. She is considering Florida, although she’s a bit undecided about gated retirement communities. All the for sale signs means the decent folks are leaving, and she will miss them and miss you too. You are full of woe because this makes you nostalgic. Woe is not a great feeling, especially when you are entirely responsible for it. Woe is pretty rubbish.

You get over the woe by Thursday because dammit, you are no longer trapped in this backwater. Relocation is the logical step after divorce, and if you get a decent price for your 3 up three down in immaculate walk-in condition with easily maintained gardens back and front (you no longer refer to it as home), you can go, well, anywhere. To London to see Buckingham Palace, or Amsterdam to get legally high, or even a white sandy beach in the Maldives before their real estate goes underwater. There, in that other place, you will find yourself, patronise another artisan coffee shop, create a new home that will suit you better. A life makeover, somewhere far from airplanes and ex-husbands. You call the adorable realtor to say you are keen on a rapid sale, and is she free to discuss this over lunch? Absolutely, she says, just let me rearrange my diary. She suggests a new Italian place that you’ve been meaning to try, and there’s an interesting vibe between the two of you across the cannelloni. Her shy mention of how sorry she is that you will be leaving does not dampen your mood. Can long distance romances ever work? You put that silly notion from your mind, for you have far to go and you are damn well going.

On Friday, you arrange fresh flowers in the hall, place a glowing bowl of oranges on the kitchen island and inhale the smell of freshly brewed coffee. The realtor says it’s important to make your home smell of fresh coffee and love and you absolutely agree. You are thrilled that so many folks are booked in to view your desirable property—the realtor’s words—what did she mean by desirable? No time to think about that, for potential buyers are queuing up and are more than welcome to make your home their own. You will hand it over lock, stock and barrel. Hell, they can have the furnishings too, for you want a complete change and you will convert a van and set off round the world and have adventures and find yourself. Bring it on. Wheel ‘em in. Love, love, love.

Large numbers snoop around your house in this no-longer-blighted neighborhood. They pick things up and put them down. They knock over the vase in your hall, trample your flowerbeds, and track footprints across the cream carpet in the master bedroom. You work hard all day to put things right and this is not how you had planned to spend your Saturday. Also, someone didn’t flush the toilet. The thoughtful realtor arrives with yellow cleaning gloves, a mop and a bottle of wine. Who doesn’t flush the toilet at an open viewing, you ask? There are many inconsiderate people in the world says the realtor, and you aren’t one of them. Your heart turns over in your chest because you are pretty certain she likes you. You put the gloves and the mop to one side, open the wine, order takeout, and discover all the things you have in common. These are more numerous than real estate and coffee and, when you break open a special bar of chocolate you've been saving, she likes that too. Mmmm, she says.

The viewings continue. This house marketing is exhausting and hard on your crockery, flowerbeds, and coffee, not to mention your toilet paper. On the plus side, the realtor is now a confidante, and possibly something more, except you can’t form an attachment as you are leaving for sure and she is looking for someone who knows who they are and maybe you are just toying with the idea of being with a woman after so many years of being with a man? Even though you are quite lovely, she says. I’m Monday’s child, you murmur. You sure are, she says.

Disaster strikes. A lawyer phones to ask you some questions about the airport plans. Of course you say as you panic and spill your coffee all over the kitchen island and then incoherently deny starting the climate activism stroke terrorism stroke civil liberties rumor, but no, he hasn't called about that, he wants to move beyond that story. The airport authority would like to offer sincere apologies for the plane-induced unpleasantness that has blighted your delightful home. Oh my goodness, you think, there is something big happening behind the scenes. You stop blabbering and sit down. So what are we talking about? He says compensation and mentions life-time allowance and a figure so vast it will not only stop you from even thinking of moving, but it will keep you in solid gold earplugs for generations to come. Really? Really. Well I don’t know, you say. You ask him to put it all in writing so you can mull it over with your legal team (another tiny lie for you don’t have one). A bulky package arrives the following day, and the lawyer has upped the offer, probably because of your non-existent legal team. You call the realtor to share the good news and confess your duplicity, and she says everyone stretches the truth to fit and I’m delighted to hear that you won't be selling your house. This such an odd thing to hear from a realtor that you think, aha! Then you make your move.

It is Sunday. You wake up in your comfortable bed in your much-loved home to the aroma of fresh coffee and the faint clatter of cups from the kitchen. You are happy, your neighbors are happy, your bank balance is very happy, and Beyoncé has nothing on you because you feel bonny and blithe and you might even, at a stretch, be good. For the realtor stayed over last night, and you both agree (Hallelujah) that you are gay.