Thursday, 11 February 2010
Yes, that would be it... such high hopes.
I have been scrubbing. And lying down. And feeling tired. And the other day I was squinting to read something and my Mum passed me her glasses and lo and behold I could see and now I do believe it is time to shoot myself because it isn't enough that I have sprouted a grey eyebrow, but heaven help us all, the relentless march of time wants to render me old lady blind as well.
Such high hopes. Isn't it funny how you think life is going to go one way and ten years later it's a completely different kettle of fish? I am mourning my lost youth. So I have been scrubbing. And filling bowl after bowl full of hot sudsy water because I can't get enough of the scent of Cath Kidston washing up liquid. And channeling Dita Von Teese because she is my latest Domestic Idol, and singing along with Zooey Deschanel at the top of my voice (I'm just sitting on the shelf...) and eating my own utterly scrumptious recipe for Shepherds Pie, with cabbage and mustard and a sprinkle of this and that, because nothing, oh but nothing, nothing and nothing, tastes better when it is so cold the French hand soap freezes on the kitchen window-sill. Shepherds Pie served with home-made tomato chutney in terracotta bowls and room temperature eldeflower water with a slice of lemon, curled up on the sofa with a tray on my knee and a little boy tucked under my arm.
High hopes! It struck me recently that I should probably come with a warning. If I say I am going to do something this week, please let it be universally acknowledged that I actually mean next month.
High hopes and the best of intentions are worthy qualities, but heavens above life is quite the rudest of interrupting, interfering curmudgeonly companions on the road to doing what you intended to do isn't it?
One forgets to factor in hormones and exhaustion, unexpected but utterly irresistable trips to the best coffee shop in the world, an evening spent wallowing in a spick and span bath instead of blinking in front of the computer doing what you said you were going to do to all and sundry and probably her Great Aunt Maud, and days when the simple act of polishing, or cleaning, or bringing order to a room isn't so much about avoiding life, but is in fact life itself.
I always feel like this during scrub week. Muddled in the head. At once exhausted and invigorated. Prone to stabbing about for deeper meaning hiding in the mundane. Prone to accepting every invitation that comes my way in an effort to escape domesticity, and more than that to fill my head with voices other than my own.
High hopes. I am behind. I have gotten waylaid by letters that fall out of books and worrying about a long list of tiny worries that probably won't come to pass. The scrub may have to linger over half term week and reach a glittery climax the week after. It isn't the end of the world.
High hopes you see are such flexible little friends. Relentlessly optimistic little shape shifters all too willing to adapt to only what we are capable of right now. High hopes are believers in tomorrow and if I know nothing, I know this: when it comes to scrubbing there is always tomorrow.