Toeing the Line

I appear to have broken a toe during the high-risk activity of walking down the stairs.  Actually I went to kick an item of dirty washing down and caught my toe on the step.  There was a rather unpleasant crack and then me limping a lot.  The only bones I have ever broken have been toes.  Once I did it kicking a potty, another time on an armchair.  Clearly I should not be allowed to walk anywhere, as the world in general has it in for my toes.

I splinted it to the toe next door (to it - not to my neighbour's toe.  That would be taking neighbourliness a bit far) with cotton wool and sellotape.  This morning it is an attractive shade of purple.  I have not yet attempted shoes or really any walking as such.  However I will not be troubling the hospital with it. 

The first time I broke a toe was about 1989.  I drove my daughter and myself to hospital and then limped slowly to the A&E department.  Interestingly, not one of the hurrying members of hospital staff passing me stopped to ask if I required help.  Anyway, in the end they just splinted it to the toe next door...

Songs In The Key of Life

'Yo, it's been a long week
How I've got this much energy is beyond me...'

So sang Rizzle Kicks on Mama Do the Hump.  It has indeed been a long week.  As far as the energy goes, it seems to have gone - I woke at 8.36am this morning, approximately 20 minutes after I should have left the house.  A real OH SHIIIIIIIT moment.  Cutting corners and corners of corners, I was out the house by nine.  Needless to say, I smell a bit.

I have spent the last two days doing what any sensible person does when confronted by exhaustion, boredom, brain atrophy, conflict and an excess of poo:  eat.  Eat and eat and fucking eat.  Mainly crisps and chocolate and Laughing Cow sandwiches.  I cannot eat in front of the children because they always want my stuff and I hate sharing my food.  So each day I go between my jobs to the same bench in the same little park and eat to just this side of vomit.  It's not big or clever, but it feels like ballast against the oncoming storm.  If one's stomach is full, it's hard to feel anything much.  I know it's not the answer, but it stops the questions, for the time being.

'Something better change', as the Stranglers snarled.

The Naming of Farm Vehicles

It's Thursday, the longest day of the week as I normally do three jobs.  Perhaps it's exhaustion or something hormonal but today stunk.  It's job three right now, which should be fairly easy as long as the cough doesn't wake her.  I have eaten cold tinned ravioli (shut up, it's a delicacy) and am enjoying the occasionally punctuated silence.

I nearly fell asleep at work twice today.  The first time was in the after-lunch hour with The Boy, when he asked me to name repeatedly several farm vehicles in a book.  A milk-tanker is still a milk-tanker, even the sixteenth time.  It seems wrong to be so utterly bored, because he's a sweet boy. 

And then with The Girls this afternoon.  I think I covered it well and made it look like I was thinking.  It was, however, the last moment of peace, as they were both on demonic form today. 

I asked before - is it ok, if this is all?  I think the answer is no.  The bored arrid despair that makes you feel like slitting a wrist with the edge of an Usborne book.  The Caligula-like behaviour (not mine; I'm more of a Claudius).  The pooh, the pooh, oh god the pooh.  I need some adult words in my head.  And not like that.

Doing Bird

We haven't had a birdy post for a while, so indulge me.

Often these days when I feed the birds with The Boy, we just get crows.  And I can understand why the collective noun is a murder of crows because they go full Mitchell brothers on each other just for a stale crust of bread.  Louts. 

We have one regular swan who is obviously not very good at shopping because he is always waiting for his mid-morning stale bread.  I'm guessing his underwater larder contains only beer.  Swan, or A85 as his friends call him, gets about as close as you would wish a beaked arm-breaker to get.  I am so far still intact.  N4, an Egyptian goose, is also getting quite pally.  We had four swans surrounding us this morning, so word is obviously getting out that we have the good shit.  Or maybe the pens were all on the nest and just sent the guy swans out for a bit of peace and quiet.  As you do.

Highlight of the morning was the first babies of the season.  Very small Egyptian geese.  These are not they.  I have used a stock photo to protect their privacy.

Rabbit Rabbit Rabbit Rabbit

Would it be ok, if this was it?  I mean, if I do not get a "better" job, if I grow older on my own in a foreign country on quite a low (though so far sufficient) income?  If I spend the rest of my working life at the bottom end (literally) of the service industry?

Most of the people I meet here in Brussels speak a minimum of two languages; some speak four, five or six.  Most of the people I meet are highly-qualified professionals, or have a skill-set that fits a particular industry niche.  It does occur to me, at times, that the odds might not be in my favour.  So is it all right, where I am?  Well, I saw four bunnies all together this morning, and that rather made my day.  But for every bunny-sighting there can be hours of tedium.

I have never been ambitious.  Not through laziness, although I do a very good lazy.  As a migraineur of 38 years' standing - successfully medicated only for the last three of those years - and a spasmodic mental, my main aim in life has been to stay employed and employable.  I am glad to say that I've succeeded in this and have never been out of work, or off sick for any considerable time.

My most recent job was something I really quite enjoyed and which my brain used like an imperfectly-equipped gym.  At times I swear I could actually feel my neurons getting more muscular.  Now I rely on this blog to keep my head fit, and reading through the contents of the wardrobe.

This might be as good as it gets, and is that good enough?  What does "good enough" mean?  I am not qualified to do anything at all, although I nearly achieved a life-saving award in 1980.  At the end of the day, does it matter what you did before the day ended?  There are currently three small children who are going to grow up with a dim, evanescent memory of my ready kisses and cuddles, and my singing loudly to them in the street, and my wittering endlessly about parakeets and diggers.  Although outside a very small domestic sphere this is not considered important work, it is important work. 

Is it enough?  I'll get back to you.

Contains Mild Peril

I've just been reading for the second time "This Book Will Save Your Life" by A. M. Homes (pub. 2006).  It isn't some sort of self-help-by-numbers though, trust me, I have enough of those in the wardrobe.  The link above will give you a brief outline of the plot. 

What I like about the book is that, although the protagonist and the sub-protagonists are not terribly sympathetic characters, you like them.  You care about them.  Without wishing to give away the ending, you are left literally at sea on the final page.  Nothing is resolved - this is the other thing I like.  The book is suffused with mild and acute discomforts and perils and yet nothing at all is resolved.  Despite this, it's a satisfying book.  Perhaps because that is what life is like, and Homes is acknowledging that.

When you think about it, not much gets resolved.  Things gently rankle, or go un-answered, or are never quite achieved.  And that's ok really.  The non-resolution sort of is the resolution.  (Sorry, I think rather too much on my morning walks).  Life in process is simply life.  And it's fine that way.  Most of the time. 

By the way, we had transport today, after six days with none.  That seems like a resolution, but the matter of increased security for transport staff is still sort of on the table and not entirely answered.

Panning Ahead

Just back from a very late babysit, and another taxi driver who asked me the way.  You know that thing stuck to the window with like a map on it, yeah?  It tells you where to go.  And I'm tired.  So tired I couldn't actually remember my address for a minute.

Something that is excellent about working in the houses of the relatively affluent is they have great saucepans.  It occurred to me tonight that I have never had a really great set of saucepans.  Partly this is down to not getting married.  People tend to score good saucepans through marrying - in fact this may be one of the main reasons people get married.  I have had a couple of sets from Argos which, let's face it, were never really going to last.  Ooh that could be metaphorical and stuff, but I think it was just lack of money.

Having got used to some really solid heavy-bottomed pans in recent months, I now have saucepan-envy.  There's little point buying anything yet as my flat comes equipped with sub-Argos cookware (plus I have my own limping, dented Argos cookware) which I shall happily leave behind one day.  But in that middle-distant future, when I have a bigger flat in this area, with shelves so I don't have to keep my books in a wardrobe, I will buy pans.  Really fucking ace saucepans.  I might even get married to celebrate this achievement.