I worked the last two nights and walked the dogs after a sleep
Shit it’s almost five pm and already almost dusk.
I ring to see if I can change an eye appointment , no answer
The twins loudly demand their tea, and even Weaver is rubbing my leg in anticipation
Judus!
I run around and set out the recycling.
A villager stops to chat for as moment and I ask about his sick brother in law,
Moments later Animal Helper Pat stops him and asks the same thing. Such is life in small communities.
I unload logs from the car as Roger listens from over the kitchen wall
A day I could have done with one.
I finish laundry and organise a clean outfit for counselling day tomorrow, laying it out on the kitchen chair
I feed the twins but Weaver has already peed on my fox cushion in what I can only assume as frustration temper.
I wash it but use up all the washing up tabs
Fuck and there’s no milk either
I make a coffee and sit looking at my spotty Ikea plate and jug of plastic tulips.
Mary farts in her sleep
And I wish I was in a sunny cafe in Madrid’s Atotcha
An old lady’s voice. It’s not Pat or Mrs Trellis but another villager I know
She pointed at my recycling and I prepared myself for some sort of neighbourly complaint.
“ look at these beauties braving the elements “ she crooned, pointing to a bit of lane buffering my wall
There, hiding away amongst the weeds were several delicate viola plants
I had not noticed that the kitchen clock had not been moved back on Saturday . It’s only 4 pm
A violas are metaphor for getting on with the mundane and the ordinary.
