This morning my secret man did not come. The alarm exploded into life at 4.40 a.m and there was a grunt from the side of my pillow, “I couldn’t be bothered to ride today,” muttered the grunt, rolled over and with a big huff and a puff, went back to sleep. His languishing in bed means my other man cannot visit to sprinkle the house with fairy dust before I awake. Poof, just like that, he is gone.
He really does exist, my other man, I’ve shared him with Mrs Woog so he must be real. Rinaldo is jealous.
My usual man, the one I married in a glorious sun dappled ceremony on Noosa Beach, has degrees of 4.40am quiet, which range from flicking on the wardrobe light, flicking it off again, sighing, flicking it on again, then off again and rustling around the drawers, pacing round looking for the light with enough lumens, wallet, ID, phone and matching socks, to full-on-have-you-seen-my-bag-of-spare tyres?”
This is after he’s spent at least six and half minutes peering sleepily at the weather radar to predict whether or not the rain will make it to Bobbin Head Road before, after or during the descent. He does however, whisper, “bye, love you,” on the way out so that makes it all ok again – smart operating. By then though, I may as well get up anyway.
To start with, the Italian Stallion lived in the garage, cradled gently in its own special bike cradle, chained to the wall in case of errant passers-by deciding they wanted to re-home it.
I’m not sure exactly what day it was, but after one particularly loving Stallion grooming session, which involved at least two other members of the family to hold the frame, and another to turn the pedals, the glorious vehicle progressed to the vast expanse of disorganised space under the stairs.
It has shuffled its way proudly into the kitchen since then, where it seems to have taken up permanent residence. I don’t think I signed off on that visa, but then again he keeps telling me I need to return the single earplug to my right ear to hold things in my brain, so maybe I did.
Do you remember back in our single days, when we imagined our gorgeous home; tidy, organised and tastefully decorated with bunches of fresh garden flowers and decorative fruit bowls. Socks neatly rolled and bunched in drawers, there would be stunning pieces of art on the walls like the ones Martine Vanderspuy makes from resin, and which have me swooning with colourful, lustful happiness, and my couches would be softly framed with vibrant throws from her store draped elegantly over the arms.
I have a lovely home for which I’m very grateful to my beloved. Organised it is not, tastefully decorated it is not. Forget the rest, altough there is some half dead lavender pilfered from next door on the windowsill.
So far this morning I’ve cleaned up four piles of Ridgeback poo, spot-mopped three floor puddles, (one from the leaking fridge), cooked breakfast, cleaned up breakfast, taken delivery of three piles of sports gear, a computer and a lost homework book from my partner-in-crime Bin, my stepsons’ mum, showered, emptied the bins, played 32 rounds of indoor fetch and 15 minutes of ‘stay’ training with the puppy and his bandaged paw, recovered the same puppy and his bandaged paw from the wet ground 3 times, mopped the porch because the damn mynah birds keep shitting on it, put on and hung out a washload, been to get coffee, fixed a few website thingies, answered a stack of messages and written this blog.
I wanted to go for a run but now it’s too hot. Actually that’s a lie, I wanted the feeling that comes after having a run but got buried in domestic minutiae instead and now it’s too hot.
What are you up to?