the bed post


Now it’s dark at hometime. I thought about writing here over Easter but even checking my emails proved too hard. The trees were old and huge and resplendently autumnal, and a bird made the strangest, clearest notes on the ledge outside my window in the morning. I listened to it for what must have been nearly an hour. I clean forgot about Facebook.

I read – and finished! – a book in broad daylight. We went to see Boy at the Hastings movie theatre (the whole experience even felt like the 80s). It’s a lovely film, my NZ film of this century, even.

I managed to laugh until my cheeks hurt at one point, Easter Bunny came, Dad stocked the outside fridge with sauvignon blanc, people made fun of my sleep habits (especially the ones who had been up since dawn with children), I got punched in my sleep, got mesmerised by a wee blue-eyed girl and woken in the night by a chattering, cot-rattling curly-haired boy. We sat with the families in the sun down on the grass court past the rose garden (right where the dancefloor was at our wedding). We talked about a new chapter for LP and Mr America. We talked Broken Hill and ate apology sorbet. I topped it off with a small mouthful of gripe medicine. (And I mean that quite literally.) We talked about Frankie and operations (but not in the same breath) and golf scores.  

It was cold when I got home, and dark, and so I got into bed. Sometimes I write in bed, but only certain things, and not much. It doesn’t take much for sleep to overcome me… and I need a little bit more rigidity and urgency and momentum than my me-shaped stack of pillows offers me.

I have an ambivalent relationship with winter. There’s love and there’s comfort; there’s dread and sometimes bundled up alarm. Sometimes the toes of my stockings get wet, and then my shoes smell, or the elastic on the waist goes and I’m irked all day, forever walking into meetings trying to hitch them up and keep them there without anyone noticing. With the warmer months there’s just constant like, somewhere safely in the middle ranges.

I currently have minus two days’ leave owing to me. Which, of course, makes me long for a holiday more than ever. Wanting the thing I can’t have, etc. Short-lived, rugged-up stints in bed will have to do, for now.


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