Musings: My Diary (if I wrote one) from a week or so ago…
Monday 11th June 2018
Monday: exciting news today is that it is time to take Rupert for a check up at the vets. This means, as I have a special needs dog in the form of Arthur, who cannot be left alone unless Rupert is also there, that we all have to go. I have decided today is the day to have The Talk with the vet. Roo is fine, he is really well actually so it is a good day to talk to LV (lovely vet) about The End Game Plan. Rehearse calm conversation about how I would like this to go. Naturally, having completely composed myself on the drive in, I instantly dissolve into tears before I have even one full sentence out of my mouth. Distressing interlude begins for all of us as Arthur begins to whine, Roo begins to yip and LV goes out to get tissues for me. LV fills in gap in my conversation – me being reduced now to wet sniffs and gulps instead of words – with a cheerful discourse on Losing A Much Loved Pet. Decide to abandon The Talk until another time. Arthur wees on the floor. Know how he feels…
Tuesday: appointment book reveals that I have an appointment at the dental hygienist. My old hygienist has left and so I have a new one. Becoming less afraid of dentist was really only achieved by previous hygienist being angelically nice to me and I have had a good 2 years. Tell literally everyone I meet today that I am Very Nervous. Receptionist glances at colleague, decides I am probably harmless and indicates a chair in the waiting area as far from her as is possible. I sit and read about spiral knitting.
Steve (new hygienist) has 2 or 3 goes at alerting me to my appointment and eventually the old man sitting next to me digs me sharply in the arm and demands to know if I am Alison. I admit it, and then Steve gently leads me into the office. S asks if there have been any changes since my last appointment. I tell him I have become, once again, overcome with Dentist Nerves. As angelically nice woman has left. Steve listens, and then asks me if any dental or medical changes have occurred. I tell him I have given up drinking fizzy water to which I believe I had become addicted. Steve agrees that this is Wise and pops out for a moment. Nurse enters. I tell her I am Very Nervous and that I wish my other hygienist had not left. Steve comes back in. Nurse tells him that I am Very Nervous. Steve nods, maybe a little wearily, and then coats the entire interior of my mouth with a thick gel or paste, rubbing it firmly into my gums especially. This is a first and I try (but fail) to say so, my mouth being full of his hand and also a lot of paste. Instead I gag on his finger but happily am not actually sick, I just urge a lot and my eyes completely fill with tears. I decide to close my eyes and think of a Fairisle chart. Procedure is totally painless. Am unsure if this is the paste, or the skill of the hygienist. Am blissfully grateful and happy! Thank S and nurse in manner of Academy Award winner, and float into reception to make next appointment. Rave to receptionist about how Great S is. Skip back to car, bestowing smiles and cheerful mini-waves to all I pass. Achieve car, and look in mirror. Startled and disappointed to see that tiny coat of mascara I applied earlier is now all over cheeks and temples, in improbably huge dried-up rivers of coal-like stains, probably due to the gagging. Drive home in dark glasses.
Thursday: finally complete The Allotment at Home Project. Last delivery of gravel has been dumped, the last lining is down. Gravel Man and I say farewell, for ever…Immediately begin agony of indecision re old allotment. Now is the moment to go one last time, empty the shed and never go back. Instead of following this plan – which has been widely shared and agreed with many interested parties – I sow seeds for things I have no room for, here. Also, pot on squash and spinach. Reflect that I could just keep it for another year. Rule – which is flagrantly dismissed by several plot holders, I note – that 75% of the plot must be under productive cultivation is a problem as I am now only growing garlic, rhubarb and raspberries. Wonder if planting a few stands of beans and half a dozen mystery squash will suffice. Family express strongly held view that I have got an allotment here now and I cannot reasonably keep the other. Continue to sow beans…
Friday: attend the gym for usual classes. I am very early so I decide to cast on a Moebius. This witchcraft further sets me aside from the demographic and I regret getting out knitting – or at least think in future I will knit only ‘normal’ things in gym foyer. Put knitting away and instead attend to some admin on my phone. Lovely Retailer (LR) with whom I have worked for many years, is retiring and I have been asked to offer some autumn teaching dates for the New Lovely Retailer (NLR) who has bought the shop. LR asks for Brioche. Having sworn never to teach this wretched subject again, and indeed, having firmly refused several times in last year, I inexplicably give in and say Yes. But only In The Round. Instantly regret this but have sent email so too late. Spend entirety of classes thinking about Bloody Brioche. Find, part way through Spin, that I am standing up and have been for ages whist rest of class is toiling in seated climb. This lapse due to finding that, mentally at least, I have no idea how to knit Brioche any more. Entire knowledge of it has fled. Assume this is self defence. Hope it will somehow, magically, be restored once I try and do it.
Try to wrench mind away from BB in the torture that is BLT class. In the end, compromise thus: I make a bargain with myself (or the devil, unclear on this matter) that IF I can hold the pose we have been contorted into – which in my opinion leaves me with one hand too few on the floor, but anyway – for the duration of the 10,000 leg raises, on each side, without putting my hand down or stopping, Bloody Brioche will be unparalleled success. I do hold the pose but sadly catch glimpse of self in mirror and am horrified to observe demented expression and mad hair. That’s Brioche for you. Do come.
Go home and eat chips.
Saturday: receive text from Lily who is euphoric about the completion date on the house she and Jack are buying in Bridgwater. And this has just been confirmed. Text back with equally euphoric reply. Which is entirely false as this news, looming as it has been for so long, is in fact most unwelcome. Try to tell myself this is Good (I know), and Normal (yes, yes), and that others Have It Far Worse (yes, I suppose so but do not care in the least and if we were all honest, we’d say the same). Yet, day clouded with terrible self-pity about this year being the first for 29 years when I will not have 1 or 2 children living at home. Am disappointed that I am not, after all, that paragon of motherhood who wishes nothing more than for her off-spring to leave; mainly because it is Good and Normal, and also because she is about to join the local symphony orchestra on a good-will tour of Middle East, so timing could not be better. No. I am not that woman. I don’t even really like going to Taunton. Decide to keep allotment. That evening, try to think about Blessings. For example, M and I will have so much more quality time. Glance at M, asleep behind the Telegraph which he believes confers properties of invisibility. Cast on Bloody Brioche.