Saturday
Obviously if I’d started writing this yesterday the title would have been ‘today’s the day‘.
I’m out of the habit of writing. I’ll get back in the swing but you’ll have to imagine the Tart gems that have been missed, never to recover.
Yesterday was that day that many of the inhabitants of this island mildly dread. The day that occurs at vaguely this time every year, the day when the heat of spring arrives with little or no warning. The day that makes an idiot of most of us sartorially speaking. The day that you leave the house perfectly reasonably dressed for the weather the day before, in an outfit that by mid-day is completely inappropriate leaving you hot, sweaty and ittitated until you find a seat in the shade outside a bar that serves aperol spritz.
I wonder who sends the memo out to the chosen few to let them know to get shorts, sandals and knottable shirts out of the wardrobe. I wonder who you have to bribe or shag to get on that mailing list.
Maybe I just need to pay more attention to the weather forecasts, stop rolling my eyes at them.
My attention has been called into question several times recently. I moved into my new studio at the beginning of February. I have only just noticed that there is an enormous, very beautiful blossom tree right smack bang outside. In my defence I have been working elsewhere for weeks but really it’s not much of a defence if you see the tree. The lengths I go to describing the building for visitors when all I need to say is it’s the one with the effing enormous tree that is as big as the building outside. Or indeed, the one with the effing enormous tree, charming magazine and coffee stall and the reappearing/disappearing toilet unit. A toilet that rises out of the ground at times of need. I had also never noticed the toilet or more precisely the toilet foot print, which is in fact its roof. I know, it’s confusing, a thing of wonderment and horror. What I want to know regarding the toilet is, what would happen if it disappeared underground while someone was still doing their business?
What?
I for one will never be using it or its like.
My most notable lack of attention involved a text message from Ken’s mum requesting some information/guidance on a production matter. How nice to hear from you, I said. How was Cash the dog (who is currently staying with her). How was her husband (who last I saw her had recently come out of hospital). This message was followed by some confusing correspondence but also an arrangement to chat via FaceTime.
Perhaps she’d been drinking? Who am I to judge?
During a conversation with Ken it came to light that his Mum had not been in touch with me. A young male colleague of his had. I checked the text which started with a clear introduction including his name and working relationship with Ken. We had even had cause to exchange numbers previously. I, in a moment or indeed several moments of poor attention ignored his intro and failed to question that his name was not the same as Ken’s mum’s or that I have never had her number.
I know, you might think it’s a frightening sign of old lady brain rot, however, I’ve done worse when much younger.
In recounting such to Ken I hit a level of hysteria usually associated with excessive alcohol consumption. I could barely stand up. I had just eaten a cake and sugar really affects me these days.
I wonder when I might grow up, I would suggest that I’m running out of time. Cornflake and I have just chosen our last mattress after all. Its costing a pretty penny but it’s got a 25 year guarantee……
fat tart 