On Friday morning I rose, as I routinely do, at 6am to go swimming. Unsurprisingly one is operating on autopilot to some degree; there are specific tasks to be undertaken namely to make a cafetiere of coffee, transport it upstairs without spilling and consume the contents. As this particularly day was the last time I would see my Friday Fairy before Christmas I have put her present on the kitchen worktop just in front of the radio.
The gift is a bottle of wine in a gold present bag and a card is balanced on top. As I open the cupboard door the edge of the package catches and the bottle falls onto the ceramic tiled floor. It is 610am and I am standing in a pool of Chardonnay; the bulk of the glass remains within the paper but a remarkable number of shards are liberally scattered across the kitchen.
After uttering a number of expletives – a vocabulary that I apparently share with Andrew Mitchell MP – I reach for the pile of spare tea towels in an attempt to avoid the pool spreading further as I simply have neither the time nor the inclination to deal with this now! Of course I now smell of alcohol; well my feet and calves specifically but frankly I think my swimming companions are unlikely to be crass enough to ask why I have the odour of a wino – with the possible exception of Vera. (My 80 year old friend with a love for slapping a wet cheek in the changing room; not ones facial cheeks either – wickedness in ones more mature friends is somehow forgivably amusing).
I don’t sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time and my current pain management regime guarantees a regular sprinkling of sleepwalking meets adept narcolepsy (I am capable of performing quite complex domestic tasks in this state)! It escapes me why this particular drug has such a high street value as the idea that one would pay for these ‘pleasures’ is incomprehensible. But then the Spinster is about as far from a hedonistic teenage boy as you could get – and I personally can abide needles (the choice method of administration is intravenous after grinding to a fine powder). Quite why I felt the need to share this random fact is momentarily lost in the ‘to be filed’ neural pathway – there are advantages to keeping ones drawers tidy it seems.
The absence of a good night’s sleep coupled with the bruising discovered from a night literally bouncing off the walls does impact on ones co-ordination. Last weekend as I turned on the shower I did give a little yelp as the hot water seared into the rather large graze on my back; 2 by 6 inches and raw. As the day rolled out various other wounds became apparent; I can’t tell you how irritating it is trying to style ones hair whilst manoeuvring around a lump you can’t see (but oh my I could feel it)! The question hanging in the air is why don’t I wake up or seem to feel pain in this narcoleptic state? Does my body become rubberised – please do not make ‘humorous’ and ‘helpful suggestions involving the word cellulite! You may be familiar with the morning after a heavy night – a Christmas party perhaps – when what actually happened is revealed in snippets; the ill advised choice of Karoke song; the flesh that became naked in an unplanned manner; or the acquaintances you confessed undying love to (even though their last name simply wouldn’t come to mind)? This is very much like the morning after an active night except with clues; the pile of Options White Chocolate powder in the sink or PJs spilling from a drawer or random items laid out neatly as if about to do some complex task! Hey ho!
By the time you’ve finished wrapping one’s body weight in Christmas presents the good will imbued in the initial purchase has frankly evaporated! Or perhaps that’s just me but I suspect not! Each present has been carefully selected for the recipient and I know I have a tendency to get carried away hence finding myself on the verge of tears at 1130pm on Tuesday night. If I had to cellotape another piece of wrapping paper to encase yet another oddly shape item I venture I would have screamed ‘let me out’! Of course in my floppy fatigued state it would have been more of a whimper; there are few times when I wish I could blame such emotional outbursts on my hormones but this is one!
Whilst having my weekly electrolysis on my troublesome ‘beard’ the lovely woman administering the treatment extolled the virtue of present bags and lots of tissue paper. I had got as far as the bags but was worrying about the legions of emptiness in certain ones; tissue paper may be pragmatic but seems a bit mean. The alternative could be the one taken by a close member of my family who shall remain nameless; it’s all about the environment honest! Order from Amazon and address to the recipient – job done! I probably don’t need to say this person is of the male variety!
On the electrolysis front I have been mortified as at least 3 people I mentioned it too said they didn’t have any unwanted hair on their chin! One confessed to a moustache issue but no-one was prepared to even pretend to empathise – season of goodwill and all that I forgive them all! The first session was fine; no redness and certainly no ‘white heads’ to speak of. This week an infestation that no-doubt Auntie is going to have something to say about – I can just see her putting her hand on my shoulder leaning back to get a better look as she peers over/under her specs! Excuse me whilst I garner thoughts of a fluffy variety to stroke lovingly as a way of regaining my composure!
Brownie points of the dutiful daughter variety have been earnt since arriving at the parental home – a fabulous cherry trifle sits in the conservatory (posh name for my father’s shed) waiting to for a cream topping – and many flowers have been arranged! As long as no-one finds out that I might possibly have dropped cigarette ash in the sprouts (and possibly the new potatoes) that are in the overflow fridge (the garage) – this is my smoking lounge!