One Of Those Days

ONE OF THOSE DAYS

It was one of those days; the kind that takes you from one trying situation to another. You wake up with a start to find your beloved, shifting sleeping positions, a bit like a whale about to pounce on his morning snack. Actually, he is rolling over mumbling something in his sleep. As a result, the sheet is pulled upwards, resting across your face smothering you: totally accidental of course, but annoying nonetheless. In an effort to break free, you bang your head on the headboard and your reaction sounds a little like an escaped banshee.  Finally, you settle down for shut-eye, despite the wind singing a merry tune and the rain thrashing against the window. You foolishly believe that there’s tons of time before that dreaded hour of wake up. Passing all too quickly, you discover that the sun streams into the window despite the blind being down.  You are fully awake. Rising reluctantly, you look out the window, and, not for the first time, think about how wrong the weather forecast had been. A change of attire may need to be considered, They, whoever they actually speak of Melbourne weather as “four seasons in one day”. Like a good boy scout, you need to be always prepared.

In light of this, you run the water for that few moments of relaxation. Bliss, as every tired muscle, gives in responding to the heat. The cage of showery warmth cascading down your back is pure luxury. Reaching for the shampoo you realise you are over-generous with the liquid; it runs down your face, just missing your eye, in your mouth down your body and soaks your feet.  At least, so you think, you will be well washed. Out of habit, you pick up the soap bar, because you absolutely refuse to use liquid soap. Why bother if you can get the same effect using generous amounts of shampoo!

Just to add to the mix, your glossy hair decides to escape from your head, land on the soap and refuse to budge from its cushion. You, however, not being able to stand “dead” hair, try to remove it without success unless you are prepared to be a contortionist in a cage-like space. You have no choice the hair comes of the soap, the soap slips to the floor. In frustration you yell, “Oh Pickles.” and other non-offensive expletives, praising the saints that no one can hear what you thought: after all, you reason, no one was ever hanged for what they thought, only for what they allegedly said or did. 

You meander towards the kitchen suspecting that the aroma wafting through the house is actually not coffee beans roasting, rather toast in its charred state. Smiling you realise that it is so charred it has been rejected outright. In its place is the golden version complete with shards of butter and English Breakfast marmalade, made as only Beloved can. He is usually up early seeing to Tiddles.  Tiddles, however, has her favourites; she looks at you with the disdain only a cat can muster, conveying the message. “Human, where is the grub?”

You prefer the grub on the table made for you by loving hands, the same loving hands that can deal with Tiddles, he always does and she knows it.

All is not lost, breakfast taken, dressed properly and makeup is done, you and beloved are now ready for the planned outing. It is not earth-shattering, it might even be enjoyable depending upon who has also been invited. Beloved has thoughtfully remembered his umbrella, oh and he also remembered the casserole you made last night. You, in your endeavour to look gorgeous, forgot all about it.

Five minutes at your destination you hear what might prove to be your worst nightmare.

“It IS you.” Oh no! Little wonder you had a strange sense of foreboding, as you came in the gate.  The voice that shatters glass with a breath, and three-storey buildings with a sentence. You think fleetingly of the retirement village being built close by, not for the owner of the voice, but because of her. What destruction could a whole idiotic, uninteresting story cause? Beloved knows what you are thinking about. He smiles, feigning interest in the tale. Reluctantly she turns her attention to beloved and keeps on with her exciting (to her) stories. You feel the tension rise within you; “Will she not shut up? You think “I’m sorry darling.” and move away trying hard not to raise your hands and block your ears. How childish! how obvious, how satisfying! You are however at a public function and you are not a child anymore.

The sight of food cheers you. You accept the offer of a glass of red. Merlot how smooth, how comforting. Someone places a nibbles tray in front of you Yum! Asparagus rolls.  Imagining your first bite, you are unaware that the idiot behind you merges a little too close knocking your elbow resulting in the asparagus roll adopting a grape coloured smile, worse your best shirt is stained at a strategically obvious place. How long can you stand being hugged to hide it and did beloved think to pack an extra shirt? Even if it were one of his it would do.

Perhaps since the material is adaptable for rinsing you could just….   Eh? What is going on? You wonder why there is a flurry of activity. Food platters being taken inside. The gas barbeque being moved to a sheltered, safe place Worse the alcohol beer, wine spirits and ooh ginger beer rushed indoors. Come to that there is no one other than yourself outside…Why?

A clap of thunder rolls above your head. Instinctively you look up Great, another shower nothing like the one you had earlier, oh yes there is you are wet and how. Momentarily you look down. Your entire shirt is pink, your good shoes ruined and you are starving.

“Darling?” you feel yourself being shaken ever so gently “darling, breakfast is ready.” It is beloved looking concerned “Just look at this weather Methinks the party will be indoors.”

Claire Tennant 24 June 2020