Prolicide……

The hours and minutes felt longer today. Like stretching plasticine.
Had fifteen minutes to get to Bal-Ham.
Bik- ram rocked. For some reason I could get my head on my knee, my heel in my groin and my foot in my mouth. More relaxed maybe, or just more focussed.
Loved it that Fran, the teacher thought I was called Olivia. I am about as much an Olivia as The Queen is a Sharon…
Sat in a traffic jam whilst the Bin men clogged up Ransome Road. I had enough time to finish my bottle of water and have a chat with a lovely geezer who was sitting on the seat outside Bal-Ham library.

Got back to the flat, had a shower then Gods Gift and I went to Wandsworth to Waitrose to stock up on frozen food and vino. We left, sat at the traffic lights with me still fuming.
Why was I ready to explode? Well –
Why, when you have bothered to get a hand gun and scan all your own items do they then decide to rescan the whole bloody lot. Women fume and men don’t. This set me off. When the parking ticket demanded money from me you could see the steam coming out of my ears.
GG went potty at the traffic lights, I was on the phone to The Barry, I tapped Gods Gift on the thigh to tell him it was nearly green and he poked me back. Rude!
I shouted.
He snapped.
I shouted.
He demanded I let it go.
I wouldn’t.
Why should I.
‘Determined to ruin the day’ He slugged.
By the time we got to the flat I was a bundle of hunched muscles. So much for me Bikram yoghurt.
We unloaded the bags. And over the sink I started to cry.
I said sorry.
He said sorry.
He actually patted me and said ‘There, there, there.’ I resisted decking him.
But I figure when you get to our age we could drop dead any minute so why waste precious hours worrying about whether or not he poked me rudely – which he ruddiwell did.
I then set about cleaning the fridge, so I could unpack the new produce. Very satisfying.
Make lunch with all the wilted salad stuff. Using up the olives oil, drizzling it over the salad. I’ve had the jar since last Century.
GG’s gone to bed for a snooze before the show.
Lozzie is doing her tax.
B is writing in Hackney.
My mother is awaiting an assessment on Thursday, which I’m going to.
My brother has organised the undertaker tomorrow which I am going to.
So I am now – at 16.58 – at last ready to write.
I shall write for a long time, then bed, and if possible a 6.15a.m. yoga class tomorrow morning. Parking is easier but the postures ain’t.
Have a good rest of day and remember when he accuses you of backseat driving you just remind him that man eyes can’t see the wood for the treees, what’s in front of his nose or the shopping that needs to be unloaded which is nestled round his feet. Thank God I didn’t have boy children or I would be up for prolicide, or filicide or, after a particularly bad day, suicide.
Stay sane.
I