It’s our mid-week day off. It’s not quite as important as it used to be when Julia worked weekends and it was the only day where we were able to relax together, but it’s still quite an important day. It’s lie-in day and leisurely fried breakfast day. Sunday, the other day we now have off together, always seems more frantic, as we still consider it laundry day.
I thought I’d get myself an hour of writing in before Julia emerged, like the many headed hydra of adulthood, to remind me that there are jobs to do. We established a few days ago that she doesn’t expect I’ll ever grow up, and doesn’t consider writing to be work, so has redoubled her efforts at being the responsible adult of the household.
You can’t fault her on this, as someone needs to confront the ever-rising tide of anarchy and darkness that besets me, but she needn’t be quite so cheerful as she orders me about.
She seems to forget, I am the paterfamilias of this family and my word is law.
The rot set in when we were discussing the marriage service. My mother told her to ensure the word “obey” was taken out.
“I like it,” I said, “and it’s traditional.”
“I’m not promising to obey you.” she said. And she never has.
I just noticed that as paterfamilias, I’m entitled to sell my children into slavery. I don’t suppose they would have taken any notice (they too have no respect for their paterfamilias) but it would have been one way of reducing the food bills in their teenage years.
So, there I was, sneaking downstairs to write…
I turned the computer on with some trepidation (which is another story) and checked my emails. No acceptances, no job offers from the National Press but, on the plus side, Trump has not deployed the Nuclear Option in his efforts to cling to power and a vaccine against Covid seems like a reasonable hope.
We’ll call that an average day.
I then turned to the ASDA grocery order which needs doing before 10.00 today (edit: 20.00 or 10pm), and found that they have released slots until Christmas. This involved booking slots and ordering food six weeks in advance. As if I know what I want six weeks in advance. I have enough trouble shopping a week in advance, which is why last night say me, once again, peeling carrots to get the black bits off. This is always irritating as it takes more time and, I believe, removes the nutrients, which are concentrated under the skin.
That polished off the next hour (you have to order a few things to confirm the slot, which all takes time). Julia is now downstairs in full Porlock mode, rattling round the kitchen and preventing me concentrating.
She has also decreed that today will start with bran flakes and be followed by me working hard at decluttering. So, no lie-in, no peace, no leisurely breakfast and no epic haibun.
If I knew the way to write the sound of a really big sigh I would write it now…