Today was a funny old day. One of those cool Autumn Mondays where mums on the school run look
slightly relieved to be sending the minis back to their teacher for a few hours of peace and work goers look determined to make it through to another Friday ring on their ladder towards the lofty heights of two weeks’ holidays at Christmas.
And I was off. Guiltily off. Jealously off. Shamefully off.
How I wanted to be going to school today. Looking into the glazed faces of ‘real’ commuters drinking spiced pumpkin lattes in their hire purchase wheels: commuters who were actually commuting and not just dropping ElsaDaughter to school and going to hang out at Posh Spice and The Enforcer’s house. The Enforcer is Posh Spice’s significant other. That name just came to me. He’s the type of man who means what he says and does what he says with the most understated authority. I love how he loves those girls. They deserve it.
I really admire Victoria Beckham, the real life one, not Dotty’s BFF, although I’m mad about her too. Victoria went from a gangly somewhat insubstantial ‘band’ member to a very classy, very successful designer and business woman while managing the obsessive media intrusion into her life, serial begrudgery and four kids. Good kids too it seems. My Posh is like that, while she was never insubstantial she was gangly and is now – tick, tick, tick – successful in all of the above. Although she hasn’t made it to four kids yet, give her time. She’s good at this baby thing.
Anyway, off I drove to be fed chez Enforcer Spice. Hot milk granola for breakfast. Seriously, yum. I never would have thought of hot milk. My lovely old grandad used to put hot milk on his cornflakes which ended up a soggy luke warm mess and that put me off hot milk and cereal, till now. Comfort food. With tea, of course.
I wrote yesterday about how I’m not a big seeping mess of oestrogen when presented with junior unknowns but my, Enforcer Spice kids are joyous. And I don’t use that word lightly.
We walked in a beautiful nearby park, ate Posh Spice’s version of Irish stew and drank various variations of tea while googling possible diagnoses for Dotty and her Salt Scrub Sweats. I’m becoming so fond of Superfluous Capitalisation you might confuse my writing style with Emily Dickinson, I’ll just throw in the odd dash and a few more coffins.
The park we walked and talked in today is close to where a new person in my life is from. That was nice. Nice park, nice person, from what I’ve seen of them.
We’re watching Vikings, Ragnar Lothbrok. Delish. A broad, strong shouldered, hairy chested man is a sight for tear reddened eyes.
When I got home I had a mini crash and burn. I took to my bed and dozed in a grubby, fully clothed, fitful half sleep. The reassurance I found in making lists with Posh Spice had ebbed away and I was back in the depths of the night. It might as well have been the witching hour instead of the late afternoon.
And then The Valedictorian mailed me. The beautiful wife of Cousin Who’s Like a Brother saved me from Dotty this afternoon. She managed to remind me that Dotty has an alter ego called Hotty and we texted back and forth for a couple of hours. It’s funny that I’m not religious but yet I’m convinced that some higher power, our beloved grandads maybe, got together over a heavenly cup of hot or iced tea and decided that Dotty and The Valedictorian should have been family. And so it was.
I’m going to bed now, feeling ok, tired but happy with my little achievements today.
There’s no time limit to get better. I need to remember that.
I read an article last night with the tag line: “Bad experiences lead to good stories”. Shucks, thanks for the material Dot.