July 7th, 2007
Ibizan sunshine; pretty, flowing, ruinously expensive dress encasing lithe gym-toned
body; surrounded by friends and family (all hungover, mind you); champagne on
tap; vows, laughter and good wishes for a very happy future.
July 7th, 2012
London rain; stained velour trackies
and maternity t-shirt encasing body destroyed by ruinously expensive children; surrounded by packing boxes and acres of shite (which makes me wish I could takes steps towards a hangover), water and peanut butter on tap (everything else thrown
away); swears, snarls and conversations
as follows:
“Don’t bother looking in there, it’s
for the bin.”
“But but but...”
“I said it’s for the bin.
PLEASE JUST TURN AROUND AND GO AND PACK SOMETHING SOMEWHERE ELSE”
“Awwwwwwwww.... you can’t throw this away – it’s the t-shirt I was
wearing when I’m pretty sure I saw Michael Douglas that time... And this? Why are you throwing away
this? That’s my train receipt from the third
day of my second inter-railing trip... And this stone? You gave me this stone when I brought you away
to Portugal for the weekend!”
“You never brought me to Portugal.”
“Oh. Em... Still, it’s a nice
stone. MY OLD TRAINERS??????”
It is day three of a bumper four-day
packing weekend. Every time I throw
something out – about twice every five seconds – the Man slips out of the
shadows and un-bins it. So far we have
done three car trips to the recycling bins, four to the charity shop,
filled (and partially emptied) 22 bin
liners full of crap, and packed up... the
kids’ bathroom. Which only leaves us
with eight more rooms to plough through.
By Monday morning.
On the plus side, the children are
in Ireland, I haven’t had to cook a meal, catch some vomit in my bare hands or
screech about the dangers of putting spoons in bottoms since Wednesday, and
apparently I’m being brought to a fancy restaurant for dinner later. (Unfortunately I think I may have inadvertently
thrown out all the clothes which fit me, but not to worry – nothing says
discreet wealth like saggy-arsed jogging pants). The day is looking up.
I can’t help wishing it was this
time 5 years ago, however.
So you are 'escaping' to Florida, USA... in JULY.
ReplyDeleteGood lord, you really do like to challenge yourself, don't you? Florida is in the SOUTH. I'm in the middle west and it is over 100 here.
But at least that hurricane probably has Florida looking spotless for you and the brood. Good luck and happy anniversary!
East coast of Florida? I hear it's lovely. Lots of octogenarians who are very handy with a tennis racquet. Best of luck with the move. Don't forget to get the kids from Ireland first.
ReplyDeleteSometimes when the children walk into the bedroom in the morning it takes me a while to realise they are ours. Because I'm still 25 with very little body fat. Except I'm not.
ReplyDeleteFlorida will be GRAND. When do you go? I love a hot southern summer, and the ocean and the pool and the a/c should mitigate any temperature shock. Also, being pregnant in a pool is delightful. My younger son was born in July in the middle of a heat wave and I spent most of the ninth month submerged up to my nose in our town pool, lurking like an evil hippo. At home w/ no a/c I walked around naked--causing a run on condoms at the local drugstore no doubt.
ReplyDeleteThanks IB. You are right - it is grand. Very very grand. I shall be posting about it as soon as the heat-induced stupor (and a big work proposal - IN THIS WEATHER???) lifts. I too am a fan of the natural state during pregnancy (being in it, as opposed to having to look at it). Similar to your drugstore's run on condoms, I suspect my revolting protruding belly button has the tennis-playing octogenarians abandoning their viagra.
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