Routine

Here I am, back on the downward slope, after recovering from the carrot incident. (I forgot to mention that the guilty root vegetable paid the ultimate price, deep in that evening’s lamb stew. The peppers and baby sweetcorn seemed a little miffed, since they’d done nothing to cause harm, but I remain confident that they will, one day, so I was getting my retaliation in first. I didn’t hear the onions and garlic complaining. They know their place.)

Downward. Ironically, it was as I was climbing the stairs for the umpteenth time, heading to the top floor to hang yet another basket of washing, when it struck me squarely between the eyes… This is it for the next God-knows-how-many more years. Yes, it. Life. Existence. Routine.

I get up at stupid o’clock to see my son off to school. Daughter is not yet three, so I figure that’s at least another 15 years of doing the same. Christ! I then spend the day with the aforementioned 2-year-old, listening to her favourite CDs for the billionth time, while reading her favourite books for the 953rd time. Yes, I counted. I then get to drive across country to collect the (also) aforementioned son from school, while complying with preposterous speed limits on roads sometimes four lanes wide, plus a scooter lane to the side, waiting at countless irrelevant red lights while nothing crosses through the junctions. I could scream. Sometimes I scream. I then get to make dinner, do the washing-up, take out the rubbish (four times per week. Yes, FOUR TIMES PER WEEK. Never mind your fortnightly wheelie-bin collections. Four times per week. How do we produce so much detritus?). In between all of the above, I still get to change a few ghastly nappies (not mine, although that probably won’t be far off, eh?) as delightful daughter still prefers the warmth of a steaming turd pressed against her nether regions than the clean(er), cool freedom of a dump on the potty. The latest box of nappies is almost empty, so now I have to decide if it’s worth another trip to Costco for a bulk-buy Pampers episode. Sometimes, (now just once per week), I get to drive across town to take the boy to a skating class. This is usually during the rush hour, so I do battle with innumerable impatient, selfish maniacs, racing thoughtlessly to the next red light. At least the return journey is generally much quieter, but let’s not add any positivity right now. This is still about the downward. Ultimately, each evening/night I find myself alone while baths/showers/teeth cleaning/bedtime activities happen on the floor above, often accompanied by the sounds of children shouting and screaming, (like they’ve not done all day), so they presumably feel they have to tick that box before calling it a day. I imagine their conversation goes something like this: “Oi, sis’! We’ve not pissed-off the old git today. What say you we rectify that, right now, and for the next twenty minutes? Ooh, sounds good to me, bruv’!” Of course, that would all be in Chinese, so I’ll probably never know for sure. Anyway, I’ll finally call it a day when I’ve waded and tripped my way across a living room floor covered in books, cars, soft toys, Play-Doh, Lego, wooden bricks, cake crumbs, even though I’ve previously asked the wretched screaming offspring to tidy up before the day is out. To be fair, if not slightly more positive than intended for the overall gist of this note, if I’m lucky, I may summon the energy to step outside and go for a spin, but even after dark it’s too hot, so I sit, pedal and perspire until I am approximately 13 kilograms lighter than when I began the ride. I return to the relief of a cold shower, then hit the sack, secure in the knowledge that it will happen all over again tomorrow. And for the next fifteen years. As far as I can see, there is no upward to end all this.

As I have asked on many an occasion, just what is the point?