“Isn’t it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back, everything is different…”
― C.S. Lewis
I was laying on the sofa yesterday after a messy attempt at making chocolate truffles. It was 39C/104F outside and only a few degrees less inside the house. But for some reason I had felt I should get this done right now. So I did.
Truffle making requires cool. I should have waited until evening – or, I should have had the fans on full bore, moving the dribbles of cool air around. But I didn’t – I attempted to make the truffles in high humidity, with only one fan blowing (because I should be conserving electricity) using the wrong chocolate and marscapone (because I had it to hand and should use it up). As a result it was a shambles.
I have decided do stop dyeing my hair. Not a popular decision if my (informal) friends and family poll is anything to go by. But I remain steadfast because I have my reasons:
– it costs over half of one month’s salary across a year
– my hair looks good for three weeks then starts to resemble raffia
– the dye process takes over two hours to effect, with another 45mins for the cut: that much time in a salon makes me antsy
– no-one is fooled as to my age.
So a couple of challenges have presented themselves over the past days in NYC. Realisations about ourselves that neither of us had anticipated. Nor welcomed. Proof that no matter how much we may say the opposite – things have changed. We are not the women we once were.
I was driving back from taking Jack for a walk today (yes I am aware of the contradiction) when that furry fellow spied a left-over piece of his favourite chew on the dashboard. He jumped up to claim it and inadvertently turned on the radio, scaring the hell out of us both. I don’t listen to the radio much any more – there is no ‘oldies’ radio station in SA, and, outside of the odd Bruno Mars sing-along, I can’t be bothered with the music that ‘popular stations’ play these days. I am a word girl and the me, free, he, we, see or yo, ho, bitch, stitch, itch, lazy-ass rhyming that passes for lyrics these days, just irritates the merry hell out of me.
So, once I had retrieved the smelly bit of ostrich sinew, I reached to turn off the radio. And then stopped. Because it was Bobby McFerrin.
It’s the end of a long day and I have just poured myself a gin and tonic. Because I’ve earned it. But, given where I started out this morning – that pour constitutes a fail. I woke up at 6.30am as planned, I worked my ass off all day, missing my favourite Monday yoga class to work though an endless spreadsheet, and stopped working only a few minutes ago, at 8.00pm. I’ve walked two dogs and fed them and eaten my microwave meal – kindly supplied by sofabrother. I’ve up- and downloaded, ipaged, inumbered, exceIed, whatsupped, called, texted and instagramed.
I was scrolling though Facebook this morning when a man asked me this question. There’s something wrong with the settings on my page – if I so much as brush past a video, it starts playing. Sometimes a good number of minutes later, scaring the crap out of me.
I had just been battling to turn down a video of a poor bloody chameleon who was being encouraged by her owner to pop soap bubbles (when in reality she was desperately stretching for something to cling onto so she could escape. He had her standing on his hand – not a normal position for a chameleon to be in – people are such twats sometimes.)
Last weekend Jack started choking and gasping for breath. I applied the dog Heimlich and fished around in the poor bugger’s gullet with my finger trying to find whatever it was that was ailing him – but to no avail. He could breathe, but it was a gurgling gasp and his little body was inflating and contracting so much I could see the outline of his ribs. “Yes, take him to the vet now,” said my neighbour Rob – expert on all things canine, “better than a disaster tomorrow.”