When I used to ask my mum how work had gone, she used to say that it was alright, but it was a bit ‘worky.’ It has become a bit of a catchphrase in our house, because it sums it up perfectly. At the moment I feel like life is just a bit ‘lifey’, if I’m honest. There is just so bloody much of it.
I know, more than anyone else that I need to relax, but honestly, it’s an uphill struggle most days.
Take Friday for example. I had a trip to the dental hygienist in the morning, but managed to combine it with lunch with my mum, which was rather nice. Errands in the afternoon were followed by an appointment with a lady wizard of my acquaintance who rewired some of my wonky energy and sent me home to sleep, because I would be tired. I couldn’t stop yawning in the car (I am very obedient, particularly to do with being tired). I was looking forward to kicking my shoes off and taking it easy.
I got home to find that Jason, brim full of energy, had emptied out a small room we have, which is the equivalent to most people’s cupboard under the stairs. He had also pulled the fridge freezer out from the units to put in a new water filter, and for reasons that were largely unclear, decided to empty half the shed into the garden. I honestly thought he was either leaving home or we had been burgled when I walked in the door. At this point he also realised he had other things to do, and hadn’t eaten, and would we help him sort everything out so that everything else could slot into place. By the time I’d done that and cooked and eaten dinner it was about nine o’clock and I was so far past being pleasantly tired I was glassy eyed and unable to switch off.
Every day is like this at the moment. Every, bloody, day. The kittens keep stealing Derek’s food and getting the shits. I seem to spend half my life hiding Derek’s food, and the rest, looking for it. In between that I have to explain to kittens why they can’t just shit wherever they feel like it and then roll in it. Then there’s carpet cleaning, and floor scrubbing, and washing clothes/soft furnishings etc. One of the kittens over indulged so much he ended up getting blood in his pooh, and this necessitated a trip to the vet, along with his brother, because they needed vaccinations anyway. I came away £90 poorer with the basic knowledge that Ronnie P is a greedy bastard.
Derek seethes and plots their imminent demise, and was so stressed by them, she pissed up the leg of the large cardboard Tom Baker we have in the study. Poor Tom. Poor Derek. Poor me.
Derek is on every form of cat tranquilliser known to man. She is on zylkene cat supplements, Bach flower remedies, homeopathy and Scooby Snacks. As the kittens are still alive, I feel that it is working, but it is a constant battle and I am forever shutting cats in rooms like some weird challenge on the Crystal Maze.
To further add insult to injury, I was assiduous in making sure the kittens were flead and wormed, but forgot to do Derek and she has brought fleas into the house, which I found today when one casually hopped on my knee. I went absolutely mental, and have boiled my house in oil, de-flead Derek, who has now run away to London with a hanky on a stick, and laminated us all from top to toe. My house has never been cleaner, but I am a rag of a human. I managed a quick bath this morning. It was a waste of effort. The house smells clean. I smell like expensive flea treatment and bum. Cat’s bum.
In between all this I have been to see the gynaecologist who did my surgery last year, because the advice I have been getting from the various hospital consults is so confusing it actually melted my head. I thought it was me, but when I went through it with her, it actually melted her head too, so that was reassuring. We now have a plan. It involves me going in for a procedure, but at least it’s a plan and it makes sense, and I know what I’m doing. I’m still taking the blood pressure meds. I may also add worming tablets to the mix. Everyone’s taking them in this house.
I have cooked about a trillion meals. So many meals on Sunday and Monday that they seemed to morph into one gigantic, relentless meal that nobody really wanted to eat, particularly me. On Monday I made lunch and dinner straight after breakfast I had so many other things to do, and it was the only way to fit everything in. On Sunday afternoon, when it seemed like lunch had only just finished but dinner must begin, Jason offered to help me. He was in charge of the chicken, while I prepped potatoes and veg. All went ok until I took a look at the dinner, which should have been almost ready, to find that the chicken was black on top and pink on the bottom and the potatoes were anaemic. It turned out that Jason had accidentally put the oven on grill/fan, which I didn’t even know was an option on our oven, and I’ve been cooking with it for the last six years. Dinner was salvageable, but snacks were required to tide us over. More bloody food prep. And if I’m not cooking it, or preparing it, I’m shopping for it. I went to the supermarket three times on Sunday.
We have also had CAMHS appointments, school appointments and house buying tasks to slot into all of this, along with the regular, day to day stuff. In between this, I am trying to fit in some relaxing. Last night I went to bed at 8.00 p.m. I was so tired. I woke myself up at 9.30 with a nightmare. Then Oscar came in for a chat because he’d heard me being awake. He left, and then Tallulah arrived for a chat. By the time we had put the world to rights, it was 11.00 p.m. She went to bed because she was very sleepy. I was wide awake and didn’t get back to sleep until about half past one.
I sometimes wonder if this is a plan by the universe to prepare me for something in my future that I need training for. I’m not sure what it would be, unless I’m in line to start a cat circus, with a small psychiatry booth as a bolt on. Some days its only the curiosity that keeps me going.