In about ten hours I’ll be on train to Magistrates Court, Poole, Dorset, England, to face the music. Luckily I am tone deaf.
Postponing the inevitable I haven’t YET written a word, neither outlined budget why they can stick their fine where my monies will not stretch to. That can wait till two hours before legging it down to the train.
However, by way of diverting anxiety as to imminent incarceration, explained earlier today to son how to work washing machine in my absence; not least to not forget to turn OFF the oven. It met with little amusement: Not because he doesn’t want to do his own washing but because he is worried that going to a cell will blow my already stretched mind (think knicker elastic ca. 1955, slightly worn by life’s joys and tribulations).
I packed into today more than most people will into their spring clean spread over weeks: Tottered to doctor, did NOT cry at his shoulder, nevertheless made it clear that after the last three years testing my patience above knicker elastic might need replacing. Him, of a kind disposition, realising that I’d react allergic to anything he might suggest by way of pharmaca handed me a tissue instead and a copious supply of Vitamin D tablets to keep – for my age – apparently borderline thin bones in shape. Brill. Have just blown all my chances with Ramana.
Staggered into town to keep various people in humoUr (depleted), queued quietly at post office; had heartbreaking conversation with son on return, eating muffins which, naturally – in attempt to keep some sort of resemblance to normal life – I had baked ca 0700 instead of writing that blasted court thing. Now, and don’t say it doesn’t pay to speed (unbeknown to me) on 20 August 2008: As displacement therapy goes I have excelled myself: Filed like the devil, hoovered like Dyson, cleaned like Doris Day and Mr Muscle rolled into one.
With a bit of luck, tomorrow afternoon I shall return to an immaculate flat, alphabetically ordered.