holidays in bed with an exhaustion-aggravated bout of flu.
‘Go on then,’ I sighed.
‘Anything else you want to add?’ he asked.
‘I can’t think of anything specific. Can we add to the list as we go along? As things occur to us?’
‘Of course.’ He shut the notebook. ‘Now, would you lay the table for me, love? And after that, I’m going to type all this up. I’m going to make a proper contract type of thing. A list of rules.’
‘Rules for me?’
‘Yes. Rules for you.’
‘How formal,’ I said with a light shudder.
‘I want to do this right.’
‘I know you do,’ I said. ‘I should have known you would.’
1 August
I’ve followed the rules pretty well over the last few days. Summer holidays are coming up, which has kept my mood upbeat and my temper sweet.
A couple of times I’ve almost fallen off the wagon – a few minutes late here and there, nothing more – but Dan has just uttered a word of warning and I’ve jumped into line.
It’s exciting. I like the feeling of being on a tightrope, trying to keep my eyes ahead and my head level. I mustn’t fall!
But of course nobody can walk a tightrope forever, and my balance is getting very, very wobbly.
I got home yesterday and found one of those ‘While You Were Out’ delivery notes on the doormat. Always annoying, at the best of times, and I’d had a hard day so I swore at it as I read the instruction to come and collect it from the post office.
‘What’s wrong?’
Dan was right behind me, frowning over my shoulder.
‘Oh. That’s for me. Can you pick it up tomorrow?’
I tutted.
‘I suppose so,’ I said ungraciously. ‘It’ll mean going into town after work though.’
‘Never mind, eh?’ said Dan, in a tone that I was starting to recognise as dangerous. ‘If you’d rather, I’ll get them to throw it through the area car window while I’m out chasing down a twocker. Would that be easier for you?’
I didn’t say anything but flung the card at the hall table, not bothering to retrieve it when it missed and fluttered down to the floor.
‘I’m considering issuing a warning,’ said Dan. ‘You need to calm down. It’s a minor inconvenience, not an outrage.’
What was a bloody outrage was the way he thought he had the right to lecture me.
Oh. But I’d given him that right, hadn’t I? I wanted him to work with me on minimising precisely this kind of overreaction. But in the heat of my irritation I couldn’t find that headspace and instead I sulked and flounced around the kitchen, banging pots and pans when I emptied the dishwasher.
This seemed to do the trick and, by the time he came in to help me prepare dinner, I was all smiles and ‘how was your day?’ again.
So I got away with that one.
Or so I thought.
Today was hot – the hottest day of the summer so far – and lunch at the lido was looking very, very good. I grabbed a sunbed, slapped on the lotion and settled down, waiting for the café waiter to come out with my order of a crab salad and a glass of sparkling orange juice. This was the bloody life, no two ways about it. Splashing from the pool, warmth on my skin, pure chill-out away from the city stress …
Oh, shit. I sat upright. I was supposed to go and pick up Dan’s parcel.
Ugh. I was supposed to pound the burning concrete all the way up to the sorting office, sweating like fury, and then lug the thing – which could be any inconvenient size or shape – back. And eat lunch. All in one hour.
It was too much to ask. He’d have to wait. Why couldn’t he have it redelivered, some time when his shift pattern allowed? He was unreasonable. It was not my job to run around after him. Etcetera. Ah, here was my crab salad. Yum.
Well, maybe I could pick it up after work. Except the office, I dimly recalled, closed at four. There definitely wasn’t time now. I had to get back a bit early to set up the mock job interviews I was running.
I tried to forget about it, tell myself it would be OK, I
‘Go on then,’ I sighed.
‘Anything else you want to add?’ he asked.
‘I can’t think of anything specific. Can we add to the list as we go along? As things occur to us?’
‘Of course.’ He shut the notebook. ‘Now, would you lay the table for me, love? And after that, I’m going to type all this up. I’m going to make a proper contract type of thing. A list of rules.’
‘Rules for me?’
‘Yes. Rules for you.’
‘How formal,’ I said with a light shudder.
‘I want to do this right.’
‘I know you do,’ I said. ‘I should have known you would.’
1 August
I’ve followed the rules pretty well over the last few days. Summer holidays are coming up, which has kept my mood upbeat and my temper sweet.
A couple of times I’ve almost fallen off the wagon – a few minutes late here and there, nothing more – but Dan has just uttered a word of warning and I’ve jumped into line.
It’s exciting. I like the feeling of being on a tightrope, trying to keep my eyes ahead and my head level. I mustn’t fall!
But of course nobody can walk a tightrope forever, and my balance is getting very, very wobbly.
I got home yesterday and found one of those ‘While You Were Out’ delivery notes on the doormat. Always annoying, at the best of times, and I’d had a hard day so I swore at it as I read the instruction to come and collect it from the post office.
‘What’s wrong?’
Dan was right behind me, frowning over my shoulder.
‘Oh. That’s for me. Can you pick it up tomorrow?’
I tutted.
‘I suppose so,’ I said ungraciously. ‘It’ll mean going into town after work though.’
‘Never mind, eh?’ said Dan, in a tone that I was starting to recognise as dangerous. ‘If you’d rather, I’ll get them to throw it through the area car window while I’m out chasing down a twocker. Would that be easier for you?’
I didn’t say anything but flung the card at the hall table, not bothering to retrieve it when it missed and fluttered down to the floor.
‘I’m considering issuing a warning,’ said Dan. ‘You need to calm down. It’s a minor inconvenience, not an outrage.’
What was a bloody outrage was the way he thought he had the right to lecture me.
Oh. But I’d given him that right, hadn’t I? I wanted him to work with me on minimising precisely this kind of overreaction. But in the heat of my irritation I couldn’t find that headspace and instead I sulked and flounced around the kitchen, banging pots and pans when I emptied the dishwasher.
This seemed to do the trick and, by the time he came in to help me prepare dinner, I was all smiles and ‘how was your day?’ again.
So I got away with that one.
Or so I thought.
Today was hot – the hottest day of the summer so far – and lunch at the lido was looking very, very good. I grabbed a sunbed, slapped on the lotion and settled down, waiting for the café waiter to come out with my order of a crab salad and a glass of sparkling orange juice. This was the bloody life, no two ways about it. Splashing from the pool, warmth on my skin, pure chill-out away from the city stress …
Oh, shit. I sat upright. I was supposed to go and pick up Dan’s parcel.
Ugh. I was supposed to pound the burning concrete all the way up to the sorting office, sweating like fury, and then lug the thing – which could be any inconvenient size or shape – back. And eat lunch. All in one hour.
It was too much to ask. He’d have to wait. Why couldn’t he have it redelivered, some time when his shift pattern allowed? He was unreasonable. It was not my job to run around after him. Etcetera. Ah, here was my crab salad. Yum.
Well, maybe I could pick it up after work. Except the office, I dimly recalled, closed at four. There definitely wasn’t time now. I had to get back a bit early to set up the mock job interviews I was running.
I tried to forget about it, tell myself it would be OK, I
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