SWB feels buoyant

I just deleted a text I’d intended for LSB, catching myself on before I hit ‘SEND’. I was re-reading it to ensure there weren’t too many typos (sometimes he worries from my garbled missives that I’m mid-stroke, and rings to check if he needs to call 999). The message read: ‘Those towels u hung out are almost dry! No need to tumble! What a productive morning!’

Thus before he received it and thought: ‘What has happened to my wife, and by direct association, my present existence,’ I got rid of it. But the JOY, people, the JOY I felt when I went out to the line and felt the crispness of towels dried in the breeze as Nature Herself intended. There has been such greyness, such a prevailing dampness of late, that the recent rays of sun have been a benison, worth remarking upon. Yes, drying towels on a line as opposed to the tumbler CAN mean that they take the first layer of skin off should you rub too vigorously, but sure we all need to exfoliate, and rarely do we take the time. Dear Lord, I’m really warming to this theme, aren’t I?

By my standards, it’s not even the most mundane of messages I tend to send. Regularly, I give him ‘cat updates’; always a riveting read. ‘Izz loved her leftover chicken. Snoozing now.’ This will be accompanied by a picture of the cat, sleeping, for added intrigue.

I also keep him posted about my current ailments. ‘Left Achilles buggered after run. May apply ice.’

Often they are bowel related: ‘How r ur innards after that curry? Mine r in tatters.’

And they say romance dies 8 years into marriage. Not in this house. Hell no.

Thankfully I’m not alone. A friend sent a photo to the WhatsApp group on Saturday night with a picture of a Danielle Steele novel she’d found while dusting her book case. Yes, you read that right. Dusting. Her. Bookcase. Of a Saturday evening too. She has no idea where the novel came from, as it’s not her usual reading material, what with her being a Professor of Law and all. I too, had come over all Mrs Hinch and had cleared a few surfaces, and even taken out the Pledge. ‘Oh ho, we’re quare rock and roll this evening girls,’ I quipped wittily, to the group. ‘I’ve just put the bath mats on to wash,’ added another. ‘You win,’ I replied.

I was actually supposed to go out DANCING this weekend, until my friend told me that pre-dancing drinks would commence at 9-45. I baulked. 9.45? She may as well have said 2am. Alas all, it would seem that I am hopelessly past it, getting my kicks instead from slipping between laundered sheets, after a day of pottering round church fêtes, stroking baby goats and eating tray bakes made by Presbyterians.

But you know what? I’m ok. It was a quietly glorious weekend, with friends and sunshine and frolicksome children. It’s gently soothing NOT to be running the roads and make oneself fit for the public gaze of an evening. For now I’m content. I’m away to pop on Radio 4 and do a bit of ironing.

 

 

 

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