A Day Off

I’m almost giddy with excitement. I have the day off work. I never take days off. We’ll ignore that it’s already 11am, that I got up three hours ago, and all I have done so far is wash dishes, wash clothes, tidy up, hoover, and whatever else crossed my path around the house.

There were half-arsed plans to visit a nearby town with two of my daughters to buy some new clothes for the fast approaching long weekend in Amsterdam. That hasn’t happened on account of them not getting up, getting dressed, having a wash, or showing much signs of life at all.

So here I am. Finally sitting down in the junk room. Of course I say “sitting down”; I’m now cleaning the desks, putting things away, and trying to at least make my immediate surroundings a little less chaotic.

It’s been a week, and the week isn’t over yet. Work has been relentless – a common theme in recent times – and home has seemed similar somehow.

Another half hour passes while I empty the dishwasher, and clean the kitchen (again). I just crossed paths with my middle daughter briefly:

“Can you pick the clothes up in your room and put them  in the wash?”

She rolled her eyes.

“I’m going to work”

That’s about the length of our conversations at the moment.

I joked with a friend a few weeks ago about having a falling down moment, and pulling out a suitcase half-way through the day, filling it with marmalade sandwiches, and walking away from everybody and everything.

Maybe I really should write the novel I keep noodling with the idea of.

The first chapter would be reminiscent of the opening scenes of “Saving Private Ryan” – but transpose Juno beach and the hail of bullets for an endless series of thankless chores.

I wonder what the central character might do though – after snapping and walking? I guess you’ll have to read the novel (if I write it) to find out.


Time to use the remains of the day wisely.

Oh hang on. I can hear cupboard doors being opened in the kitchen. Now do I quietly walk in and tidy up again in a few minutes, or do I wander through, question the teenager invovled about tidying up after themselves, and face the inevitable blow-back about “always going on”?

Decisions, decisions.

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