I have never believed it is possible for anyone to keep all the plates spinning in the air for very long.
Today, the sad news is that we accidentally smashed the commemorative Withindale Easter Egg Hunt plate right in two. Last Friday I smashed a champagne flute and tomorrow… who knows.
Whilst we wait to find out what’s next I’d like the Egg Meister, or a suitable representative to kindly advise if they would like their original plate returned next year, plus some superglue, or shall I get on the case for another suitably Easterish plate and transfer the plaque (also with superglue).
As I said, plates in the air, having it all, doesn’t work: always ends in some kind of smithereens or the other. As it’s Friday night (was dance night), here’s a tune. I couldn’t dance to this in a month of Sundays, but I used to like playing it in Stamford Hill when I was pootling about in my white Peugeot 205 (diesel: as my Grandpa would have said). It’s a shockingly dated video, and Lionel prancing around with a bare chest under an unbuttoned shirt is a big No from me, but still, sometimes it’s good to go back to a time in your mind when you only had the one plate to balance on a stick and keep spinning, into infinity and beyond.
‘It’s alright, do it again…’
Hobble downstairs on stiff and twisted foot. Wonder why this happens
Make tea x 1.5. Thankful to have remembered the youngest insists on putting her own sugar in and I have averted being roundly abused. Feed dog.
Am informed by half a cup sugared tea drinker that there is water, “possibly wee” on the floor under a chair in the dining room.
Mop floor, notice badge-pressing hand is sore.
Am informed by same informant that Edgar the Guppy “may be dead”. Feed fish, guppy unresponsive. Anxiously prod fish alive. Think I might cry with relief.
Drink tea. Am despatched to make coffee and get extension lead. Am informed that two extension leads have been broken in the last month by myself or my mother. Am also reminded I have not yet “fixed” the upstairs televisual feed to bedroom. Retort that I have no vested interest in this.
Draw coffee drinker’s attention to my horoscope: You might get so angry at someone who is being obstinate today that you could lose your temper.
Impervious to zodiacal warning I am admonished for serving coffee in the Arsenal mug (oh I knew what I was doing). Am informed that the morning’s viewing (downstairs, remember no feed upstairs) will be Tweenies with half a cup as no desire to relive the Gunners baffling (yet predictable) dismal display.
Open cupboard-under-stairs, take out extension lead, chip loose football over Henry hoover and quickly shut door before it rolls out again.
Hide upstairs with laptop and incontinent dog. Perhaps they will forget I am here.
Life is like this in the morning: lots of potential, but blurry round the edges.