I wondered what I would write about this evening. I have many posts in drafts but I felt they were more for when I was desperate for ideas, as opposed to now, when I’m just boring and monologuing.
Can monoboring be a word?
*feels the power as I choose not to delete any of that waffling nonsense*
It’s Friday. Hurrah! And on Sunday it is seven weeks to Christmas Eve.
Time to sleep.
Sleep well, my friends.
My drive home from work normally takes me twenty-five minutes. Today, it took me seventy-five.
I tried not to be frustrated by this.
I reminded myself I wasn’t in the accident that lay ahead.
I was forced to stop. To wait. To breathe.
And I watched. I watched as our long line of jammed cars, awkwardly created a path for an ambulance who would tend to strangers.
Or something like it is happening right here, right now.
Which is great, because LIFE!
But also just life.
I’m not complaining only that I’m not expecting much from my posts this month.
Anything is better than it was and for now, as my first post for NaBlo, this’ll have to do.
Go well, my friends.
Be your best.
You got this.
“I don’t understand,” I said, “Nothing has changed, except we now know.”
“Yeah, “Mum said, “It’s like we’ve put on an extra coat.”
We have. It’s cumbersome and lacks warmth. It’s a weight of knowledge
We’ve slipped into this coat as it was handed to us and we can’t take off.
We have many coats.
We all do.
Some make us lighter, some warmer.
Some we grow into. Some we grow out of.
Some are in storage.
Some we didn’t know we had.
The coats we love wear thin.
We all have this coat. The coat of mortality – the knowledge that life is finite.
The longer you live, the more you wear it.
It’s not a coat we like to air.
We put on the fighting coat.
And we have love.
We have now.
This coat fits best.
After a long, complicated day at work, my husband opened up his arms for a hug and suggested I change into my pyjamas and get cosy.
The hug was well received. And somewhat muffled by his jacket I asked a question that led to this conversation:
Me: If you could do any job and make a living off it, what would you do?
Husband: Hug you.
Me: You’d make a killing! Except I’d have to pay you which would be counter-productive.
Husband: Be a good job.
Me: Seriously though, what job would you do?
Husband: Hug you.
Me: I think I need to rephrase the question.
Husband: Write about the cat eating his chicken wing.
Me: That’s really dull.
H: Introduce a narrative, make it interesting. How he was meant to eat it on his mat but didn’t so I had to wash the floor.
M: Wow. That is dull. I’d do better to talk about the time you punched yourself in the face.
H: And I was completely sober.
M: And you were allowed to operate machinery
H: A pulley isn’t ‘machinery’
M: It is.
H: That’s proper English?
M: It’s machine-ish.
H: See. There’s a blog post, right there.
M: You still punched yourself in the face though.
H: Shut up.
M: Just sayin’
My first thought is always the worst one. And if it’s not, then I quickly find it from there.
Like that fire we saw on our early morning walk. We could see black smoke billowing in the distance and wondered aloud to my husband if we should call the fire brigade. His first thought is like the exact opposite of mine, which borders on guileless denial.
H: Someone’s just burning off.
Me: Now? It’s barely dawn!
H: It’s very still. Maybe conditions are optimal.
Me: I think we should call someone-
As soon as I’d said it, we could hear sirens. Then we started to hear the odd bang as combustibles caught alight.
Me: Oh! I think it’s a house.
H: You can’t possibly know that from here.
Me: But what if it is? What if it was arson? What if the person who started the fire had driven past us and our conversation had prevented us from noticing them and then they went on to commit another crime?
Not that I said that last bit aloud. He would have given me that face.
Meanwhile. I’m memorising car plates.