sweet dreams of a bad girl

Behindhand, old story, willing to catch up, especially in the mornings, fresh and still with an almost ageless spring, but there’s also the physical battle – I dream of swimming in a neat, marked pool in this weather, lap after boring lap, pushed, only for four or five laps or so, by fear of drowning.

Mentioned, supposedly yesterday, the party at Richard’s (his former sister-in-law calls him Rick, ‘that’s what he likes to be called’, new to us), and we went, friend Sarah, her grand-daughter Courtney and I, and talked to nobody except the aforesaid former sis-in-law. By the time Cath arrived, ever late, with a few of her crowd, we were both already in reverse gear.

If asked, but who would ask, I’d say I was only there to check out another new city apartment-house. Always a touch of defensive hostility when checking out others’ homes, especially those better off, so don’t believe me when I say these places seem too accessorised and designer-streamlined. Richard’s less so than Stephen’s admittedly. I think myself of ideal spaces to inhabit, with much spareness and whiteness and extraordinary enlivening dabs here and there, but in thus idealising I leave myself out of that picture, my messy mind and activities, though much of it routine (coffee after coffee), haphazard and half-hearted, projects taken up and dropped all over tabletops, cooking causes and effects spread and spattered on benches and stovetop, pets’ and kids’ effects endlessly tripped over, kicked into corners, ground into fragments by garden-earthy footwear. A bedroom and a bed of twisted and heaped linen with which, once emerged into the day, I no longer want to deal.

A couple of incidents to record for what they’re worth. ‘Isn’t Courtney looking lovely tonight,’ Sarah beamed at Cath, encouraging the two-year-old’s preening. She’d sacrificed to the girl the necklace she’d first chosen for herself, and it fairly sparkled on Courtney’s throat. Cath made the obligatory fuss, then spoke to me about reinforcing femininity – but ‘oh well, it’s all good fun’. Strange Cath should be so quick to note this, considering that when Isabelle was Courtney’s age, Cath would literally spend hours, hairbrush in hand, silkening the girl’s tresses, and you could almost hear that hairbrush chant ‘you’re a girl, you’re a girl, you’re a girl, never, never forget…’