This was the post I was procrastinating over; stopping and starting until today’s deluge. I’ll stick it up unfinished and come back to the misogynistic encounters I’ve come across in the last few days when I’m feeling capable of writing something half decent!
I’m promising myself I’m just going to start this post now and then go to sleep. It’s after midnight. I need to be up early as ElsaDaughter is back to school so mammy duty calls. Also she wants to go walking in the morning to blow off the tinselwebs and start off with the obligatory new year health kick that sends gym owners all the world over spinning into a celebratory… eh, spinning class.
But I didn’t wake up till two in the afternoon. I got to sleep around four in the morning and woke up at ten thirty after crazy dreams about my old bedroom at home; confusing the names of guys I was dating (one of whom proposed to me and then rescinded his offer of marriage when I addressed him by the incorrect name – overreact much there Rachel? I mean, Emily?) and making out with Noel Reid who mid snog turned into Rory McIlroy, and there’s nothing sweet about that, is there Caroline?
I changed my soggy pyjamas and fed the dogs, opened windows and tidied up a bit. Then I was cold. Opening windows in January will do that. It’s the first thing I do no matter the time of year. Old buildings get fusty over night. Two dogs probably don’t help the aromatic wellbeing of the flat.
Flat or apartment? I tend to call this a flat as we live over a cute little shop and it’s one living unit. I think of an apartment as a unit in a multi-dwelling block. Am I right? Don’t ask me what a condo is. We don’t have those here. I don’t think I heard the word apartment till the nineties. Well maybe I did and it just didn’t register as a relevant word because I grew up in a town where a bungalow was what everyone aspired to own, not rent. Nobody wanted to rent in the nineties. And Dublin was another world away where the only people I knew were my uncle and aunt who’d lived in all sorts of exotic places like Switzerland (it could have been Sweden actually), South Africa and then in an apartment in Monkstown, which let me tell you was the height of pink and grey, multi-storey fashion when you were eight and it still took almost two hours to get to Dublin.
Then I got back into bed, this morning, not when I was eight. I’m sure I had much more energy when I was eight.
Next thing I knew ElsaDaughter was tapping me on the shoulder telling me it was two pm and I was wondering how the hell Rory looked like he was wearing foundation (doesn’t he though?) all the time. I was soaked, again. It’s disgusting. Imagine dipping your clothes in sea water, wringing them out quickly and putting them back on, then running ten k in them and that’s what it both feels and smells like.
So I got through Monday, fairly productively despite a little bit of a dip which was quickly ramped up by forcing myself out to pound the roads. Three point eight miles later, of which the first two miles were calf strainingly, knee grindingly miserable, I felt adventurous enough to have a shower and then put on a dress! Not a fancy dress, but a dress instead of stretchy pants, mascara and little plaits in my hair.
I also brought the dogs to the beach after I got ElsaDaughter to school (only five minutes late, some kind of record), did laundry, picked up sick certs, got groceries in, made a casserole and now my buns are burning…
More after the child is fed and watered.
After I got the buns out of the oven (not a euphemism) I realised I was spent and had to sleep.
So this is the lead up to this morning’s “episode”.