tipping over

I know what I'm really upset about and it's not the overflowing sink

I know they don’t really need a souvenir from a work trip to the north east. I also know at least one of the girls is too old for the type of craft kit I’ve lifted and laid a few times now, yet I’m most probably the first customer of the day and the Canadian behind the counter has been warm and chatty so I pay £11.98 for two of them. It seems a fair exchange.

At the kitchen table the following evening, dinner finished and everything cleared away, it surprises me that they’ve both stuck about to unpack the kits. I realise while I’m running the sink and sloshing the washing up liquid around that I’m now counting in years not months the time that has passed since this is what post-dinner-time always looked like.

Domestic bliss is short lived, though. Someone gets frustrated, there is an altercation over how to roll the clay, some quick tears, a telling-off and thundering footsteps on the stairs. I follow after a minute and though there are hugs until the worst of the crying and shouting has passed, I’m soon doing what I do in this situation. Abandoned socks and vest tops are getting the sniff test and the dirty ones are chucked into the hall. Sweetie wrappers are swept into the bin and used cups and plates are piled up beside the door. I do all this while continuing to dole out platitudes.

I have a habit of running away from other people’s distress. Even my children’s.

My therapist would have something to say about this. Something consoling about how my behaviour is adaptive and that I had to do a lot of quiet sitting alongside my mother which makes it very hard to do it now. What would have happened if you cried, screamed or showed you were scared instead of doing all the rubbing, patting, soothing, she’s asked. I have no answer for her, really, other than to remind her that I’d take any chance at all to escape it, and never failed to find something sock-like to do.

I draw the curtains to block out the late evening sun, which is at its best through this particular first floor window no matter the time of year or when on the clock the late evening sun arrives. From the south-facing window I catch the moon which is nearly full, against a cornflower sky. The midweek radio programme that reports on media news said this afternoon it’s no longer acceptable for responsible broadcasters to talk about “good” or “bad” weather, given that in the climate emergency most weather sweeps in with a heavy subtext and its impact is subjective. Yes, the days have been hot and dry, and those hot and dry days spanned a Bank Holiday weekend in the UK, but it’s only the tabloid headlines that dare to revel in it now. But still, the moon. The sky. The warmth. If I avoid saying it’s “good” weather, can I get away with another superlative?

The cat is at the top of the stairs, sitting beside her basket. In the upset, the pile of folded clothes balanced on the top of the banister fell into her bed. She looks at me and miaows, perhaps in thanks, as I lift it for her.

I make my way back down to the kitchen where I find the floor is wet. Not just wet, swimming and both sinks long overflowing.