I’ve been worrying about Auntie Marie and the fact that I haven’t been to visit her since Uncle Ev died. How long ago was that now? June? I made all those promises at the funeral, but that was, truthfully, because I wanted the family history stuff, even if I did mean it at the time. Am I a terrible person? I suspect… I have plenty of time, I thought, and I could give her some company, as it must be terrible for people who lose their partners after 60 years of marriage. Aunty Marie went and visited Lottie after Alex died, which was nice of her. Of course, Lottie used to say,
“Oh, stupid woman all she ever does is bang on about religion, I’d prefer to not have someone come and visit me than that.” (Oh yes, there is more than a little of Lottie in me)
But be that as it may, I did say I’d go and sit with her, and I haven’t. Funny the things you think about at 4am in the morning. Truthfully, for all you insomniacs out there, I lay awake for 5 to 10 minutes.
Then it was 7.30am and Sam was getting out of bed to go to work. I could sense him looking over me and down at me, so I didn’t move. It is very hard to stay perfectly still when someone is staring at you, even if it is your favourite… person. A smile is the hardest thing to supress, because it is funny, not moving a nerve end. He left the room. Then I could stretch out across the bed. Then I could move my mouth. Sam did come back and stand in the doorway again, momentarily, checking to see if I was awake. Oh yes, very sneaky, I thought, as I lay perfectly still again, not moving an eyelid, not twitching my nose. Not even daring to open one eye to see if he was still looking. I just had to go on my sense of him and feel when he had walked away again.
I lay there and wondered about my sense of purpose? Sense of worth? No, sense of purpose, the two aren’t the same. Do I need a sense of purpose? I think I do? It is, apparently, one of the signs of happiness. I’ve got to write now, this is the time to do that. I must remember how to send my stories out there, how to enter competitions and, and submit them to be published. I have to remember that? I wonder if The Writer’s Market place is still a thing, or if it is all now online? I’m guessing it is online. Would it be online? What was the name of that writer’s association that I have belonged to but to which I have let my membership expire. The Writer something? Oh what was it?
Funny, last night I wanted to know the name of the author who wrote that great book of short stories and I could only remember her name was Bridget and the little of the book possibly had John in it. And up came Here’s comes John by Bridget O’Connor. You’ve got to love google. Then I was shocked, well surprised, disappointed – not as disappointed as she was, I am sure – to see that she had died of cancer at 49.
I snuggled under the blankets and luxuriated in the space.
All I had to do was wait for the huffing and puffing on the stairs and the clip clip of claws on the floorboards and the “Oomph!” and the paws walking across me.
I sat up and kissed him on the neck, at the same time smelling and remembering his flea poison application from yesterday, fortunately, I didn’t kiss him on the, actual, poison pool, only really getting the smell and luckily not the taste.
Sam bought me breakfast in bed, as he does.
The sun shone in brightly through the balcony windows.
I love the smell of porridge and strawberries in the morning.
I can’t sit up too long in bed, damn it, as I get a sore neck leaning forward. Bugger it! 10.30am, I’d better get up and go for a walk, get my hour of exercise in.
By the time 10.30am actually comes around, the sky has clouded over and the wind is blowing in cold. Buddy and I head downstairs as I need my laptop power cord and I need to get out of bed. I need to feed Buddy too.
I contemplate lighting the open fire, instead of going for a walk.
And then I feel hungry ... this is not going as smoothly as it looked half an hour ago, I think.
I open the dishwasher to find the serrated knife and my glasses are instantly fogged up from the steam. Now, if I didn’t walk around the house with my reading glasses on, I think. I toss them on the kitchen bench. I cut the Ciabatta loaf in thick slices and slide it into the toaster. I lash it with butter when it is cooked, hoping that all those reports of butter now being good for us are true. Topped with vegemite, Ciabatta, butter and vegemite, there is nothing better.
I think about Aunty Marie?
I shiver with the cold.
Then I look at the clock and see it is 11.30am and I hear myself say, “Oh, how did it get to that time.” And then I feel sad, as that is something Lottie would have said. I was going to go for a walk and Sam will be home soon for lunch.
My new rules of not working were, get off social media by 9am, that is plenty of time. Read, or write a bit until 10.30am, possibly 11am. Go for a walk for an hour. Have lunch with Sam around midday. Get back to reading or writing after lunch.
On the first day, it is a fail.
And stop spending so much time telling yourself that you can’t do it. That is very important.
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