castle

It’s good to wake up at home in my own bed after seven nights in other beds, albeit that my good woman is in them. The JRT and I open the door last night just before ten. After eight days away, fine trails of cobweb criss-cross every room. They catch in the hair as I unpack bags, enter rooms to put things away.

Eight days away and still no messages on my landline. Seems pointless having one. When I move house I will no longer use Telstra as my internet provider so I won’t need the landline they force me to pay for.

The dog is pleased to be home too, although my good woman’s kids look after him well, take him for more walks than I manage in recent weeks. They learn some of his idiosyncrasies—his love of heights, flapping his ears in the dead of night when he needs to piss or poop.

With a load of washing in the machine before seven, I unpack the remains of our trip, ring the vet where the cat is still on holiday. I pick him up at eight thirty. His delight to be home is palpable. He purrs for hours.

Thirteen murky millimetres sit in the rain gauge. Caterpillars leave only leaf skeletons on the broccoli plants. Weeds sprout through every crack, between every vegetable. Lettuces of all varieties reach for the sky like Jack’s beanstalk. Green beans dangle off the trellis. Gargantuan zucchini lie in the dirt where only shrivelled dicks sat before.

So much to do. I barely start one job before launching six more. I put two slices of bread in the toaster, hang out the washing.

The smoke alarm tells me the toaster hasn’t behaved well. I can’t see the far wall when I enter the kitchen. Eyes watering, I piff the charred bread out the door; it’s till smoking ten minutes later. The hand towel hanging above the toaster is seared. Smoke billows through the house. An hour later a haze remains, and the smell.

Apart from picking up the cat I stay at home all day, pottering, tinkering, dickering. This is my place, my castle, for four more months.

Rock on.