The Tuesday Morning Story
My body woke me this morning moments before the radio alarm clock burst into life – perhaps in a show of superiority – “He doesn't need an alarm clock – he can wake up more accurately than your atomic clock thingy can manage”. At the same moment the radio bust into life, the new mobile phone started playing tinkly noises – I really must change the alarm sound. At least the button to shut it up was front and centre on the screen.
“Time to get up”
“Hrrmmfff”
I slid out of bed, and stumbled into the children's rooms, rubbing sleep from my eyes as I went. The younger children pretended to still be fast asleep, rolling further into the bedsheets as I ripped the curtains open and put on the faux happy voice that always greets a new day.
“Get up, get ready, get out of bed
Next to Miss 14's room. I knocked – on account of not wanting to walk in on her getting dressed. She now has curves in all directions, and would die of embarrassment if I saw more than I should.
“You getting up?”
She springs from behind the door like a clown, already half-dressed.
“MORNING!”, she shouts in her squeakiest voice possible.
Half an hour later I find myself in the middle of the kitchen, making lunches and breakfasts as fast as I can. Hottest day of the year so far, and the kids want porridge for breakfast – go figure (I suspect Miss 14 likes porridge because she can do it herself, and it's easy and quick in the microwave).
Other half finally arrives in the kitchen, and announces that Miss 11 is unwell – which means she too will probably not be going to work. Arse. Moments later I turn towards the fridge to put something away, and what do you know – there's Miss 11, standing in the doorway of the fridge in her pyjamas, perusing it's contents.
You know that thing about self proclaimed master criminals not being clever enough? Yeah. That. I stood with my arms crossed behind her, watching her fiddle with stuff in the fridge. My other half walks in, and starts watching her too.
“Um.... what are you doing?”
No answer.
“I think you're well enough to go to school – don't you?”
No answer. She starts inspectingher feet.
And that was how I ended up getting everything back out of the fridge, and making another breakfast, and another lunch. Miss 11 eventually arrived for a second time in the kitchen, fully dressed for school, teeth brushed, and hair combed – with no complaints. I guess that's what you call a “fair cop”.
I usually leave the house about 10 minutes after my other half. Just as I picked up my bike helmet, keys, and bag, the phone rang.
“Did I leave my mobile phone in the kitchen?”
“Yes – I can see it right now”
“Can you drop it off on your way?”
... and that was how I ended up cycling in the opposite direction to work at 8:30 this morning, and side-stepping my way through the army of mums dropping their little charges off at infant school.
Next stop – haircut.
I get my hair cut when it starts to look “stupid”. It's a very inexact method, which also relies on a chance availing itself to drop in and get it chopped off. I don't really mind where I get it cut either. This morning was the “Barber Shop” place in the high street – the one that used to have a parrot in the shop, but now just has a big flat screen TV playing music videos non stop. A pretty blonde lady cut my hair – I think she recognised me from last time.
“What are we doing today then?”
“I have no idea. Umm... Short and scruffy?”
“What number?”
“Two?”
And that was the entire decision process for cutting my hair. The next fifteen minutes were spent tilting my head this way and that while making ridiculous conversation about nothing in particular. It's a skill that hair dressers seem to have become experts at. Strangely, we didn't talk about holidays, or the weather.
So. Here I am once more – at my desk on the third floor of a building in the depths of a country estate, waiting for an email from a client. Drumming my fingers. Trying to find things to do.