Today, I am seriously at peace with the world. Surprising really, as due to a series of unfortunate events I will be looking after my own kids this weekend instead of the planned palming-off-on-the-in-laws.
I have worked out that if I try and do most of the boring day-off shit on a Monday and a Wednesday, come Friday, I can eat, drink, and mainly not have to freeze on the school run in my running gear. Happy days.
So, at the beginning to the week I achieved my house-cleaning/Nana-visiting/MA reading/running. I am trying to ease my parents' burden slightly by doing an hour's Nana-visiting a week. It is definitely a duty rather than a pleasure I'm afraid to say. It is awful to think that I clock-watch whilst I'm there but I'm afraid I do somewhat. The moral dilemma comes though when one arrives to find the visitee otherwise engaged in the bathroom. As I tend to leave this visitation until the last hour before I have to pick the boys up, this means I have to deduct toilet-time from the allotted hour. Possibly a little harsh but I guess from both sides it is nigh on impossible to plan these things.
I don't want to be old. Even in the nicest (and seriously most expensive) nursing home in St. Albans, it is a miserable fucking existence. If there is any justice in this world I won't make old bones. I'm not sure the running and fruit n' veg intake in my thirties can undo the damage inflicted on my body in my twenties; however, my Dad is 73, and by rights, he should also fall under that rule. My maternal Grandmother was in her nineties when she died and Nana is still going strong at 99 so who knows. If I do ever get that old, I'm going to be permanently drunk and miserable. No change then.
I don't really understand why old people aren't shitfaced the entire time. There's nothing to lose then is there? There is one old boy in Verulam House who is a friend of my Dad's, (shock), who seems to get through a bottle of whiskey each day. There has got to be some merit in that. Who cares if you offend people, you'll most likely be dead before you see them next anyway!
I wonder if my Nana-visiting will provide me one day, through karma, a granddaughter that visits me in my dotage? My inkling last year that Sebi might be gay, and therefore although I had two boys I would still have someone to look after their poor old Mum, has gone away. My pink-loving dancer turned into a little thug as soon as he started school and had a dramatic haircut.
I have achieved an essay plan today. That's nearly an essay right? I'm such a knob. Even though I know it is me that is going to have to fathom my plan out next week when I write the actual essay, I write things like "All performance is haunted by death - I don't think I agree," and leave it as that. I don't bloody know why I don't agree but I just think I don't and can't be bothered yet to argue it out.
I suggested a pub lunch to my husband, then suggested he paid, then had to negotiate a large glass of wine instead of chips with my cheeseburger. Tightwad. (Thanks though Stu - was lovely - let's do it again soon.) Fridays also mean that we are allowed to just watch tele after school instead of any meaningful playing so Mummy can go and submerge with a large glass of wine in hot water for an hour in preparation for tonight. Maybe I could cope with living till 100 after all? I may well be submerging myself in wine by then though...
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