Why did my news feed contain an article honouring Kierkegaard’s birthday today? He was born in May. Everything’s been just slightly out of kilter today. I had a Sunday lie-in. There’s a reason I set my alarm for stupid o’clock every morning. But I let last night’s Guinness convince me it was a good idea to just sleep until I woke up naturally. Except I didn’t. It was a ridiculous idea in retrospect. The dog jumped on my head; instructed and encouraged to do so by Boy’s invisible twin brother. And Twinny was proper pissed off this morning! There was a Windows 10 update last night and the emojis that live in the touch keyboard had rearranged themselves into a slightly different order. And the inch long, on-screen volume slider had turned from blue to black. Holy crap! Cue Krakatoa incarnate. Except not actually incarnate, more havoc-wreaking-freak-weather-system really, him being invisible and all. Boy was just another unsuspecting bystander… for several hours.
I soaked up 880ml of black barley beer whilst watering the garden in the cool of yester-evening. I soaked up a lot more than that after I’d kicked off my wellies and sat contemplating, in the breeze of the fan, the practicalities of digging out a new shady bed in long sleeves, in likely high heat and humidity, because my tattoo touch-up is still re-healing and it’s utterly impossible for me to garden without getting seriously scratched up and downright dirty. I got saturated in more ways than one last night – organic pest control at its refreshingly wettest.
It rained today, as it happens, for all of five minutes. But it was five minutes long enough for Dave to be convinced that the conditions were not quite right for cutting the grass after all. So he put everything back in the shed at twice the speed he got it out. It was probably a very sensible decision, to be fair. Not only did he manage to not electrocute himself with the mower but he also managed to not get himself stung by a bee, nor strim through one of my sunflowers or one of his own shins.
I’m taking a leaf out of Dave’s book and leaving the scissors well alone this evening, despite a pre-existing verbal agreement with Boy that he would allow me to cut his hair before his bath. Anyone who parents a sensory ‘out-of-sync’ child ‘gets’ the dread and drama of hair cutting. (I resorted to a somewhat experimental approach last time. I had a hazy memory of a Nicky Clarke segment on Richard & Judy’s This Morning, years ago, when he gave a model a surprisingly funky cut by simply chopping off her ponytail…)
And the prevailing conditions had started out much more favourably on that day. I think it’s probably safer all round if I just pour myself a (small) glass of something Irish and water the sunflowers instead…