Open Writing

Each year my daily jottings always dwindle into appointments, birthdays or gems like ‘Don’t forget to turn the oven off.’ Some days are listed ‘2lb carrots and 1lb shin beef.’
The ‘One Man’s Week’ contributors to the Sunday Times appear to lead a wildly exciting daily existence. I often wonder what my week would look like in stark black and white. I managed to keep one week’s sojourn for posterity.

Monday: Awakened by 1812 overture a la dustbin lids. Sweep up ashy message left by our friendly refuse collector regarding our perforated dustbin. Promising weather has me too busy feeding washer to care about whereabouts of pumps, books, bags, shoes, etc. Had nasty moment when I discovered man in my bed, forgotten it was husband’s day off. By the time spinner-tangled washing is ready for the line, it’s raining. Sinfully ignoring dizzy revolutions of red arrow on electric meter I push everything in tumbler. Listen to Desert Island Discs and picture plump castaway swimming ashore with record player on head. If I get shipwrecked, hope they are extinct, and there is an influx of do-it-yourself books on boat-craft. Iron midway through Afternoon Theatre, then revive yesterday’s left-overs, heavily disguised them as tea. Don daughter’s fluorescent orange kagoul for damp bike ride, ask coyly for husband’s comment, ‘Looks daft,’ is the encouraging reply.

Tuesday: Awakened by wailing neighbourhood peacock, too late for comfort. Examine reluctant scholar’s throat – explain her tonsils are not divided into four. Search of pockets and tins produces other daughter’s £4 school trip money. Persuade another daughter, whether best friend likes it or not, her anorak is not yet ready for the jumble sale. Phone rings, strange female voice speaks, she chats on while I think of unused excuse. Her ‘Love your column’ has me eagerly reaching for diary. Take picnic lunch to allotment where husband is happily spending his second day off. Although abundantly soaked in sunshine, picnic area disappointingly situated between compost heap and soaking rubbish. Smoked potted meat butty unbelievably tasty. Small thud on my crown turns out to be a ladybird. Sign of hot weather or was I mistaken for a clump of grass? Add hair conditioner to shop list. Spend afternoon writing, sun worshipping and planting seedlings.

Wednesday: Seedlings still unconscious, with yet another school cottage trip to finance – immediately – I wish I was. Reluctant scholar says can she have tonsils removed? Well, can she have her ears pierced then? Recite excuse list, it’s barbaric, etc. Then fall into trap and promise ‘When you leave school’ evoking our ‘When can I leave?’ rebellion. Wave her off with usual farewell, ‘Wait while dad comes home.’

Decide to do something about ever-increasing mending pile gathering dust on kitchen unit. Move it into dining room. Notice strange odour that dog and me fail to unearth. Attack children’s bedroom and change furniture around. After half-hour toiling, vac gets dangerously hot and develops cough.

Thursday: Rob coal-money to pay for youngest trip enthusiast. Neglect everything and everybody in order to finish ‘Weekly’ contribution and win tonight’s bowling match with clear conscience. Excellent team spirit, perfect weather, good supply of chewing gum, can’t go wrong. Opponent’s green looks apprehensively smooth. Buy raffle ticket which I absentmindedly screw up and throw away when called to play. Spend a few nervous ends standing behind what must be the league’s tallest bowler. Realise I am not winning because partner is standing on the mat too long obscuring my view. Ask her to move. Realise I am not winning because of the sun, the green or the flavour-less chewing gum. Score 19-11 down and I wish I were dead.

Spit liberally on bowl which slips out of my hand before I can aim it. By some miracle I manage to shake hands with opponent after losing.
Swallowing my wailing peacock impression I even manage to warble the old Bruce Forsyth saga ‘Good game, Good game.’

Friday: Sock and hanky drawers mysteriously empty again, fill up washer and discover son’s socks wedged down chair in dining room. Strange smell disappears, wash mirror and so does my tan. Thrilled about neighbour’s holi-day which starts tomorrow, not just because I fancy their rhododendrons, but genuinely hope they enjoy their stay at our favourite part of the Pem-brokeshire coast. Love hearing their plans and seeing their cases lined up, nearly as exciting as going ourselves. Lovely to think our August holiday will still be waiting fresh and unopened when they return.

After buying extra bananas and luxuriously adding two bottles of pop to my order, pluck up courage to beg old onion bags for our gardener. Disappointed when greengrocer tells me they now come in boxes.

Saturday: Neglect lunch for school orchestra meeting. Wish I could learn to concentrate more on ‘Matters in hand.’ One unhappy parent asks why guitar group is not invited to play more often – no one brave enough to tell him. I couldn’t bring myself to look as complacent as everyone else on learning that Kirklees put on a ‘splendid feast’ for visitors.

Buying youngster’s new jacket twice as difficult with her friend invited to ‘help.’ Eventually met with her approval and my pocket; treated us all to 99’s in the market. They shrink considerably when four knickerbocker glories were passed over our heads to table behind.

Manage to push a dish of chats to scrape on to football supporter’s knee while he is under the influence of ‘Match of the day,’ saves valuable Sunday morning time. Read Sunday school lesson, pass last-minute preparations to daughter. Best thing I ever did taking her on as helper.

Sunday: Up late as usual, still manage to pile into faithful chauffeur’s car, climb chapel steps, refuse offer to be a marathon walker and be suitably doubled up in pew for 10.32am.

After lunch calculate how many expected visitors for tea? Eight plus two dogs! Cook chicken, arrange massive salad. Bake choc and walnut gateaux, rhubarb tart and raspberry mousse. Cook ready-scraped Jerseys. Prepare parsley butter with chopped parsley, melted butter and lemon juice ready to pour over potatoes. (Diet’s cancelled on Sunday). Drag kitchen table into sunny corner of back yard. Sun says goodbye, so do two of our members with tea invitations. Return table to kitchen. Visitors do not arrive. Three of us decide to start without dilatory son, who arrives as I sweeten my tea. After tea dad suggests a walk that we all pretend not to hear. Turn on TV and discover that foxes look as startled as I would if someone shone a light on my bedroom habits. Then it’s the order of the bath, smallest first! And so to bed.