Cleanerphobia

I had to get out of the house yesterday morning, as the cleaner was due, it was Wednesday, after all. Shiver!

Is there really no "home" or "end" key on an Apple keyboard? For goodness sakes.

... but, I digress

Shane had just left the house for work, bang went the door, so I knew it was sometime after 9am and probably not yet 9.30, although it could be close. I stumbled out of my room and down the stairs to answer the phone. I'm not sure why? Still on half-sleep auto pilot, I suspect, way too soon out of the crypt for my cynical, fuck that, gene to have kicked in yet. The (new) nursing home has been calling me daily about one thing or another. Monday it was for the name of Lottie's old doctor, despite the fact that I had given it all to them in writing when I admitted her. Tuesday, it was to tell me that she has shingles, which may explain Monday's call. And yesterday it was about some pharmaceutical requirements. Did I want to buy them? Or did I want them to purchase them? Really? What do you think?

I staggered away from the phone, spied the coffee grinder, lurched towards the cupboard to select a glass for a drink of water, when I heard, "'ello." 

I tensed, grimaced, still with my back towards the kitchen door, spammed, as thought I was Doctor Jekyll turning into Mr Hyde, avoided the Seinfeld'esque intake of air and the wail of "Newman," except in this case it would be "Guadalupe, instead turning and quietly saying, "Good morning," sweetly instead.

I slammed those beans into the machine and ground the shit out of them. I intensely urging the coffee pot to boil faster, come on, come on, come on, as the gas burner licked around the bottom of the aluminium pot. "Come on!" The gwoob, gwoob, gwoob, gwoob, shhhhhhhh, shhhhhhh, shhhhhh, crcrcrcrcrcrcrcrcrcrcr, could not come soon enough. "Fuck you universe about watched pots!" Hands as fists. Get me out of here, I thought, as the vacuum sprung into life.

I showered, dressed and was out the front door in record time.

I had bills to pay, credit card, phone, gas, all a day, or two late. Oh really, what time have I had? Smith Street was bathed in sunlight and a gentle breeze blew.

I went and sat out the front at Kent Street, simply because it was across the road from the post office and I had never been there before, it was always a little too cool for school and it had an outside, smoking area. I wasn’t at all sure if it served food. I wasn’t sure if it was simply a bar, but at 10am in the morning, I thought it can’t just be a bar open at this time. I was feeling a little hungry by this stage and in need of some food and it was nice just to sit. And sit. And sit. And sit. The man next to me was brought his coffee, after which the serving person slipped away like the wind. I didn’t really care it was just nice to sit, after my hurried exit from home. And sit, and sit, and sit.

I looked over at the guy sitting next to me and he was drinking a beer with his coffee. Maybe, it is just a bar?

Maybe you had to go in and order. But surly, they would come and tell me. Surly, they weren’t too cool for communication? But, apparently, they were.

Oh, I should go in. I got up to go see what was what, when I though, actually, I could just leave. And I headed to Rosamond.

I had just been served my breakfast when Sam messaged me and asked if I wanted to have lunch with him. Sure, why not. I’ll be finished breakfast in a read of The Age’worth and I can head right in.

Mark rang a short time after that to tell me about his latest venture in Hanoi 

“Where are you?” he asked.

“I’m in Rosamond having breakfast. I had to leave the house as the cleaner is here.”

“Nice,” he said.

“When will you be down, Sam wants to show you the air?”

“Friday night, can you tell him for me?”

“Sure, I’m having lunch with him after this.”

There was momentary silence on the other end of the phone.

“You are having lunch with him… today?”

“Yes.”

Then there was laughing on the other end of the phone.

“Let me get this right,” said Mark. “The life of the unemployed… you have left the house because the cleaner is cleaning your house, to have breakfast… after which you are going straight to lunch in the city?”

“Correct.”

There was more laughing.

Just rude, I thought. 

“What do you want me to do, get a drug habit and burgle houses?”

“Oh Chriso, only you…”

“What?”

“Aren’t you worried about getting a job?”

“I laugh at your propose sentence into servitude.”

“Well, as long as your sense of self worth doesn’t take a battering.”

“What? As opposed to going back into the corporate world to have my life sucked from me by the self-focuses bunch of blood suckers who frequent the hallowed halls of big business?”

Sam was more horrified that I'd, actually, ordered muesli for breakfast when I could have chosen anything I wanted.

"Muesli," he said with disdain. "So original."