Open Writing

‘Wish I could relax,’ is becoming a universal plea. Surprising how many never learned this habit. To be able to relax comes naturally, I find if you have a heavy workload.

Sounds paradoxical, it’s true, but the more I have to do, the easier relaxing becomes. I just split the load in two and organise a sofa-rific lounge in between – an idea I pinched from the sagacious Winston Churchill. Then, hopefully, I return to duty – er – refreshed.

My heart goes out to the non-workers of the world, because they miss one of the greatest institutions of the working day – the morning ‘break,’ that tantalising pause between discipline and treadmill, the essential ingredient necessary for successful productivity. Of course it depends on your occupation and scale as to how you are allowed to spend it.

For textile workers on ‘What you earn,’ it’s a hasty brew-up, drunk while you work, followed by a quick ‘drag’ in the toilets.

At one printing firm I was expected to join a card school in the toilets. If I played my cards right, I didn’t have to wash up. I washed up for two weeks then left.

During my two days standing at a conveyor belt counting biscuits, I could have coffee, if someone remembered to relieve me.

In a chain store where I once worked staff were allowed the luxury of two 15 minute breaks in the excellent canteen.

When I was a teenage apprentice with a bookbinding firm, I spent some of the happiest breaks of my life listening to my ex-army mate’s stories concerning his victories in war-ridden Cairo; until our forewoman put a stop to it, that is. According to him Cairo women are the most desirable in the world. Mind you he went straight there from Lockwood!

For housewives with children, organising a break in routine is difficult. During school holidays it’s almost impossible. Today I have cleaned three bedrooms and with one still to do, surely this qualifies me for an interval.

Lunch tray complete, I decide to dine outdoors where the sun is actually casting shadows. Hang on – where’s my chair? Right, here we go under window facing sun – lovely. A short delay while I belt dog that thinks the tray is for him, and knocks my tea over.

Back again, tea replaced start lunch. Sun burning gloriously on my perspiring flesh – blast that wasp. Ah, this is my Utopia. Just shows how unused to heat I have become. My scorched face is beginning to feel like Dr Jekyll’s after he took the potion. Layer after layer feels to be melting away. Must find the sun lotion. Son used it last. I discover it still in his case.

This is a good opportunity for an illicit bask in daughter’s sexy sun top. Now let’s see how should I describe myself in this three-sizes-too-small strapless statistic squasher. Stunning? Electrifying? Repulsive? The postman’s not ready yet for this transformation, better not. Back to chair, sandals off, feet on flower tub, what a life, just let the old eyelids droop.

‘Shriek,’ I’m being attacked by a wild elephant! Turns out to be our dog taking a short cut across my knees to savage whoever dared walk past our back gate. Still the best guard dog in the world, bless him.

My heart settles into gear again. The strain of daughter’s piano playing drift through the window. If she plays that piece just once more I swear I’ll . . ‘Amanda, out here in this sunshine, now.’

Daughter emerges in her summer gear: Polo neck, padded jacket, cords and wool knee socks.

Why is my daft, dozy, senile mongrel still barking hysterically at an empty road? He misunderstands my ‘Sitah! – Comah,’ and gallops hell for leather in opposite direction. Shouts emanate from bathroom, ‘Mum, come and find my bikini.’

I’d forgotten what sunny days were like.