My life is many things, but bloody imperfect is one of the main ones.
There is dust, there is untidiness, there are shouting kids and this mum woman that shouts
even though she was the world’s biggest shouting evangelist in days gone by.
There are fingermarks on the walls (I think my line in the sand is stains on the carpet) and the imagined lawn is scratty tufts of grass. The flowers die as much as they grow, the back door sticks when it’s damp and the bathroom cold tap is doing it’s own thing. The car is monstrous and I can never put any washing away and as for ironing, well the board plays the hokey cokey on a daily basis.
The dog doesn’t come when I call, the cat never shuts the fuck up l and I can’t walk past a pub without thinking it might be nice to pop in. My laptop crashes every ten minutes and I spill and drop things which causes much tutting and sighing and mess.
And I work with people who don’t know how to spell, but want to, or how to use a ruler and would like to, and some who can speak three languages but can’t write their name in one and those things sometimes make them feel bad. But you know what? That’s real, they are very real, and I am lucky to know those people and live in a difficult house with a family who can find me awkward and themselves more so.
It is the human condition and I love it.