Blackbird

The clock just ticked past 9am on Sunday morning, and I’m sitting in the “study” (junk room) admiring my own handiwork. There have always been two desks in here – one never used – or rather, just another flat surface upon which anything might be left (you know – like the kitchen worktops, the coffee table in the lounge, the side of each and every stair tread, every window, and so on.

I’ve moved my work computer to the second desk. I’m going to try out using it purely for work. During the week I will sit at that desk, without distraction from anything else. There is some brick-a-brack tucked behind the monitor – I might see what I can do about disappearing some of that into the loft. There’s no reason for it to be there – like many other things around the house, it has just ended up there.

I have to go and buy some milk in a minute. We’re almost out. If my other half doesn’t get a morning cup of tea, the world will end.

(ten minutes pass while I find some socks, put some shoes on, and trudge to the corner shop and back)

We now have milk, some cereals, and a swiss roll. The corner shop has a £5 limit on card transactions, and I haven’t even seen any cash for about three years. I’ve hidden the swiss roll in the kitchen cupboard – I wonder how long it will be until the kids find it ?

There was a new girl behind the counter of the corner shop today – I’ve not seen her before. Of course I say “girl” – she was perhaps thirty. Is this what reaching 50 does? Does every woman younger than me become a girl? I know at least one close friend who break into the biggest grin that I’m even turning this thought over in my head – it might even be hug worthy.

Anyway.

Time to go make a second cup of coffee with the newly acquired milk. The Beatles are playing Blackbird in the kitchen. A perfect soundtrack to a melancholy, grey morning.