There are sounds in the dark, the cat is complaining, there is bumping on the walls. A poltergeist, no, it is more likely to be the son climbing down from his bunk bed, the whole construction bumping of the wall, that is all.
The hiss in the head, the groan in the mind, a day of no joy and no plan, the plan had been to stay in bed and nurse the cold away, but boredom put an end to that. Get up, the son is in his bedroom, latched into his computer, the wife is on the couch in the disorderly sitting room looking at the non-operational television, drift around in a circle avoiding the shoes bags and schoolbooks scattered all over the floor.
The circle ends in the kitchen, there is the bialetti on the kitchen worktop, a top so crowded with items just left there that there is no chance of really working there at all.
Refuse, refusal. "If it upsets you, you can clean it up" Like every weekend.
Move things aside, empty the old grounds from the machine, start the grinder, remove the plates just carelessly thrown into the sink last night.
Charge the bialetti, water and ground coffee. Put the whole lot onto the filthy cooker.
Turn on the gas, a hot drink, a luxury.
Sit down at the window, write these notes, not a thing to interest anybody, but so what. The rest of the day will be spent cleaning the remains of the week.
The cat has curled in a corner, and has gone to sleep.
Today is the day before Christmas eve, a day of high expectations and great dissapointments.
The hiss in the head, the groan in the mind, a day of no joy and no plan, the plan had been to stay in bed and nurse the cold away, but boredom put an end to that. Get up, the son is in his bedroom, latched into his computer, the wife is on the couch in the disorderly sitting room looking at the non-operational television, drift around in a circle avoiding the shoes bags and schoolbooks scattered all over the floor.
The circle ends in the kitchen, there is the bialetti on the kitchen worktop, a top so crowded with items just left there that there is no chance of really working there at all.
Refuse, refusal. "If it upsets you, you can clean it up" Like every weekend.
Move things aside, empty the old grounds from the machine, start the grinder, remove the plates just carelessly thrown into the sink last night.
Charge the bialetti, water and ground coffee. Put the whole lot onto the filthy cooker.
Turn on the gas, a hot drink, a luxury.
Sit down at the window, write these notes, not a thing to interest anybody, but so what. The rest of the day will be spent cleaning the remains of the week.
The cat has curled in a corner, and has gone to sleep.
Today is the day before Christmas eve, a day of high expectations and great dissapointments.
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