It would be so handy if we came equipped with a dial to reset stress levels, I certainly need one.
Last Thursday we went to my mother’s. It was the funeral, up north, of my cousin’s husband and my mother was fretting to say the least. When demented people fret they do it in a very unrestrained manner; as she had had a mini heart attack before Christmas, I thought it was best to be there to try and keep her calm, though in the end it was me who needed calming.
Before we got there from a dawn start, I’d done a shopping for groceries and bought bath sealant, because we’d been told there was a little mark on the dining room ceiling, possibly a little bath leak. On the way, in her town, I did the fifty yard dash between the building society and the bank. The other half has stopped seething quietly in the car park now, he just sits and reads his kindle, which is a pity as it’s the last time I’ll do it, money in future will come from the equity release mortgage.
When we finally got to the house the stain on the dining room ceiling was massive. It took ages to get the side off the bath and it was while my other half was lying under the bath, as I straddled him, in a very married but not the joy of sex way, whilst pouring water on all the bits of the bath that could be leaking, that our son rang him on the mobile he was using as a torch. A wonderfully garbled conversation ensued. I had previously arranged to get all three of us a take-out on the way home but the S&H seemed to be warbling on about being in another town for some meeting or something. Traditionally it’s children who do not listen to their parents, but, I have found, you can reverse the positions if you do it either lying under a bath whilst being lightly sprinkled with shower water, or ‘you speak to him I have no idea what he is on about’ phone in one hand, shower head and sealant gun in the other, legs at five to two, trunk at forty five degrees.
Having identified the leaky bit, which was the perished rubber seating under the bath taps, I sealed it and we took ourselves off downstairs, him for a cup of tea, me to wash the dining room ceiling. Then we repeated the lying under the bath pouring the water phase, found another little hole (I sometimes wish water was a lot thicker), I sealed it, sorted out some minor stuff, did listening for the third time to a major amount of stuff about death generally and, sure that my mother was not going to conk out immediately, left.
We’d only been home for a few minutes when the S&H appeared, lamented the lack of a take-out for him because I don’t listen, apparently, cobbled together a sad meal of left- over chips, sweets and fruit and announced he was getting married on April 4th. This year. Did I mention he got engaged last week?
Sadly his fiancée’s father, who was ill, has now been given only a few weeks to live, and as she wants her father to give her away, they decided to get married just like that.
I will not delineate the ensuing hoopla. In relayed telephone reports the wedding has varied from one step down from the Duke of Cambridge’s do, to a quick hand fasting on the lawn. I am old, I am old, I shall wear my trousers rolled, so, even though the S&H has no job, no clients and was at one point threatening to get married and then come back home to live, I have stayed right out of it. I wasn’t worried, I thought.
For the last couple of days I have been tasting blood. Last night my face swelled like a balloon. Knowing the symptoms of dental abscess in me, I went to the hospital very quickly, do not pass go, and got some antibiotics, thank goodness, which should hold things until I can get to a dentist for an X-ray. I know what I’ve been doing, I’ve been grinding my teeth in my sleep again.
I’m like a five foot two, wide, need to lose a stone in four weeks swan I am, serene on top but paddling like hell in my sleep.
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JaneLaverick.com – stressy.