Skipping

skipRarasaur is so full of enticing challenges I can rarely keep up!

This one is a list, an ever growing list of things that remind me of who I truly am.

  1. Leaves
  2. Stripy socks
  3. Puppets and muppets
  4. Small things that fit in your palm
  5. Wallyism
  6. Autumn
  7. Storms
  8. Jonquils
  9. Pictures
  10. Organisation
  11. Alphabetical order (and the temptation to order this list accordingly)
  12. Cat whiskers
  13. Cat peets (paws+feet)
  14. Word invention
  15. Standing in the rain
  16. Over thinking
  17. Skimming stones
  18. The tortoise, not the hare
  19. Making something from nothing
  20. The beauty of imperfection
  21. Incidental Music
  22. Stationary
  23. Paper and Parchment
  24. Pencils, pens and paints
  25. The history of objects
  26. Collecting/hoarding
  27. Churches
  28. Dogs and cats
  29. Handwritten Letters
  30. Joy hidden in the mundane
  31. Libraries
  32. Words
  33. Procrastination
  34. Half finished projects
  35. Graveyards
  36. Skipping
  37. Pianos
  38. Cartoons and animations
  39. Clocks
  40. An open fire
  41. Window seats
  42. Markets
  43. Cinnamon
  44. Happy hands
  45. Green and ochre
  46. Old books
  47. Attic rooms
  48. Stars
  49. Feathers

Anything I’ve missed? Anything you relate to?

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Like, Eww

While out walking with Mum and Little Dog, we moved off the path to make room for a mother and her two children. The boy rode past on a bike and the girl followed on her scooter. I observed the girl briefly as she tried to keep up with her brother. She steered the handles with one hand and balanced an ice cream in the other. We’d barely moved on when the girl started crying, frozen to the spot with her empty cone in hand, looking mournfully at the lump of ice cream on the footpath.

The mother told the child it would be okay. She picked up the ice cream, checked it for obvious grit and plonked it back on the cone.

Mum and I walked on but discussed this turn of events with fascination.

‘I don’t think, even I could do that.’ she said.

I reminded Mum that she had. When I was seven while sat at the table, Mum accidently dropped my dinner. I cried and Mum scooped it all back onto the plate and put it front of me.

‘But I vacuumed that floor – that was the footpath! And ice cream is wet!’

‘A pastie with veggies and gravy?’

‘Oh yeah. Gravy onto floor we walk on, wearing shoes we use on footpaths.’ she looked momentarily shocked, ‘It’s really no different, is it?’

We laughed. I hadn’t caught anything from my floor-meal and the young girl at the park was likely to survive her pavement-ice cream.

a40e2d7e51ee5cbb439c6f8dfaceea07This led our discussion to cleanliness and the sense that there’s ‘clean’ dirt and dirty dirt. For instance, I’ve witnessed a baby drop its dummy (or pacifier, if you prefer) and a mother suck on it to ‘clean’ it before giving it back to her child.

At work the other day, after discussing what we needed for our communal kitchen, I suggested paper towel. ‘It’d be handy for if we spill something on the floor’

My colleague replied, “Oh? I just use the sponge.’

My brain then began itemising all the work-provided crockery I’d eaten off that I’d ostensibly washed with the floor. The growing number of shocked faces around us lead my colleague to defend her position, ‘But the dishwashing water cleans the cloth, doesn’t it?’ and later, ‘it’s okay really, isn’t it?’

Let’s not discuss what she did with the tea towel.

Mum has a friend who nearly vomits at the thought of a handbag placed on a table. ‘Handbags’ she says ‘have been on every floor, everywhere, including public toilets’. But then, she sleeps with her pets and, without thought, would eat food and lick her fingers after patting her dog. A friend of the family washes the windows of her house weekly, while her 1970s’ yellow food containers are so ingrained with four decades of cooking history, they’re brown.

This isn’t a judge-y blog post, I promise. I’m just illustrating how differently we all think about these things and, compared to the meticulousness of some friends, I’m a lazy cleaner. I only dust when it’s thick enough to write my name in it. I wash the kitchen floor sporadically, vacuum when it suits me (or I’ve made a dusty mess too significant to ignore) and leave the dishes a day and half too long before it hits my tolerance threshold and I wonder why I didn’t wash up sooner. I am lazy when it comes to household chores. But. But. I can’t stand stains in coffee cups, oily kitchen dust on food containers, rinsing dishes instead of washing them and the misuse of kitchen sink sponges.

We all have our limits.

And now we have paper towel in the kitchen at work.

WHAT’S THE WORST THAT CAN HAPPEN?

Maybe it’s a strange mantra. I kind of fancy one that’s more about love or creativity but this one speaks to me. It’s been my survival mechanism for many years now.

The important thing is, it mustn’t be misconstrued. I’m not asking myself to imagine the worst things that can possibly happen in any given situation. I’m not wondering if the legs will fall off my chair or my house will fall down or I’ll be abducted by a squirrel with a limp. It sounds like a drastic question, but what it actually offers me is perspective.

I procrastinate. More than I’d like, and probably more than is ‘normal’. I’m procrastinating about writing this blog post. I’ve had the title and the first line written for two weeks. But like anything I undertake have to fight the naysayers in my head. They’re telling me I suck and that this blog post is so badly written I’ll be judged ad infinitum by all who visit here. So I ask myself, what IS the worst that could happen?

I might suck.

I might be judged for it.

And the next question is the important one.

Does that matter?

*posts blog*