Today was one of those days when you have a rub-down with a baby wipe and hope for the best. There is a reason for this. Last night I did something so spack-tastic I set the cause back for women several centuries.
The washing machine in the murdery cellar seems to be permanently engaged so I chucked a few things in the shower and ran it full on. Put my headphones on, watched a bit of pirate telly. Being Human. You can probably guess the rest. Some pantage got caught in the plughole and when I took off my headphones all I could hear was cascading water. I don't think I've been that frightened in years.
The shower room was completely flooded and it was going all through the floor to downstairs. Two twin and battling thoughts: if it gets in the electrics I'm fucked; if it goes down another floor I've fucked the neighbours. In a non-literal sense. Grabbing everything absorbant I swabbed and blotted till the cascade stopped. All that damp towelling and shit is now in the shower. So I couldn't really have a shower. What a complete blonde spack.
The neighbours haven't knocked, so it looks like I got away with it.
The forest this morning was full of trees (Really? Really?) blurting bits of green. Tiny green handkerchiefs. I walked and walked while The Boy slept and thought, as I do most days, about someone. A man who touched me only once, and that was to say goodbye. It is as if my body retains the diluted memory of the touch, like a homeopathic tablet. And like homeopathy, this thought is probably complete, utter bollocks. It certainly will not effect a cure. I think of him. And one cannot help these things. It will just have to find its way out my head in its own good time.
I am now going to search for a launderette.