They say that change is as good as a rest, which is welcome news … because the two weeks I took off from 5 minute reads, wasn’t a rest.
I’ve been staying with my parents. The dog had constipation. Badly. So bad, that on the first day of the new year, for the sake of hygiene and their cream coloured carpets, I had to give him a warm bath … which wasn’t enough. Thank goodness then for Christmas crackers of the English variety, with all the silly tools that come inside. My dad’s cracker revealed a pair of tweezers. I’ll leave you to fill in the details …
My lovely daughter was home from Bali. Was there room to be had at the hairdressers, for a top up of highlights before she went back to University? No, there was not. Cue a towel, a rubber cap circa 1983 – remember those? A hook, and a packet of colour from the chemist. And me. (The result was so good I’m seriously reconsidering the expense, not to mention the environmental cost, of all those fancy foils.)
My son was partying in Thailand, which didn’t stop him messaging me in England, to ask if we had a packet of Wash-it-White, in the cupboard in Sweden. (Don’t ask, I didn’t.) My younger son was cramming math as he’s changing country and hence school systems. But what is an improper fraction? Never mind a proper fraction, multiplied by an imposter-fraction. (I made that last one up).
There were moments of wonderfulness. My eighty-six-year-old Dad and my twelve-year-old son, reading the comic, Beano together and discussing football.
My eighty-six-year-old mum yelling, Behind you! at the pantomime.
Snuggled in bed on New Year’s Eve, my daughter on one side, my son on the other, watching The Sixth Sense, and my son sitting bolt upright, Wait a minute … you mean he’s dead!
Walking an un-constipated dog across the green fields, appreciating the colours of my homeland in a way I never would have, had I not lived away for thirteen years.
And there was much biting of the tongue, as I was told which socket to plug the vacuum cleaner in, which program to use on the washing machine, how to work the remote for the automatic garage door (It has three buttons: Up, Down and Stop).
Then home.
Where on the first day back, I dropped a sofa-bed on my foot. And on the second day, got reprimanded by my middle-aged counterpart for trying to pass off baking potatoes, as fresh potatoes. Yes, there is a difference. Price-wise around £2.50 worth of difference. I wouldn’t mind but the mistake was genuine and jeeze-louise, I’d even weighed and priced correctly a single red chili pepper! The Pink Panther I am not! If you don’t understand the system, you shouldn’t use the self-serve tills, she told me. Piss off, I didn’t say, you’re not my mother.
I hobbled home.
The Ikea men came to replace the faulty frame of said sofa-bed, bought especially for everyone visiting over the holidays, but bowing like the Arc de Triomphe after only a week’s use. As I struggled to reassemble the new frame, I discovered they’d also taken away the headboard. Cue a telephone helpline from hell. Will Ikea recompense me for my time, and injury, and new headboard. No, they will not.
And on the third day … a parking ticket.
I wasn’t going to write about this. I really wasn’t. I feel I’ve covered it. You know the lack of holding back in middle age. The don’t care attitude. But they say success, attracts success, and I’m beginning to wonder. Do sensible, hard-boiled, been there-done-that -middle aged women, attract idiots?
I’ll explain.
On the side road outside my apartment block, parking is now forbidden. Everyone in the FB group is pissed, and for Swedes that’s really saying something. The passive aggression is off the scale, because there’s a viper in the nest. Yes, it’s a neighbour who reported us. One of us. A neighbour who doesn’t own a car, who instead probably owns the kind of cycle you can fit six kids, and an unassembled sofa-bed from Ikea on. And we know this, because up until now we’d all been merrily parking away, until this guy (there were witnesses) took it upon himself to inform a couple of fellow neighbours that they really shouldn’t be parking there.
How to win friends and influence people, eh?
They shrugged it off, smiled politely as Swedes do, and ignored him. Half an hour later every last car has a ticket. What a day for commission!
But my foot was blue, and HUGE and very stiff. So yesterday I parked outside, and left a note.
Can’t walk, it read. (In Swedish) Injured. Will move car at 4.30 when I have help.
I did not take a photo of my enormous BLUE foot and stick it in the window screen, but I wish I had. I did leave my number.
At 4.15 the snitch rang me. I hadn’t twigged it was him. I hobbled down, thinking I was talking to a traffic inspector, a policeman, or you know, someone whose working day involved berating motorists about their parking habits.
Oh no. He was just the snitch, as I soon deducted with my cunning lines of enquiry: Are you the police? The traffic authority?
No. No. No, he said and actually looked pleased with himself, in his fluorescent cyclist’s vest, with his pointy helmet, holding onto his fluorescent cycle.
So, I said, (foot throbbing), let me get this clear. It’s not your job to enforce parking regulations, and you read my note explaining the situation, but you thought you’d ring me anyway, to tell me off, to tell me all about rules that I’m clearly aware of as, WHY WOULD I WRITE THE NOTE IN THE FIRST PLACE!
You know what he said? No need to take it so personally!
You know what I said? Ah …if you read regularly enough, I think you’ll be all too aware of what I said. Because if there’s one thing 2023 taught me, it’s to take no prisoners.
So … how’s 2024 going for you?
A great read, thank you and one that chimed with me. The highlight of New Year's Day was when my Dad (who has Alzheimer's) named the most birds and won the game in a fit of giggles by offering the Oomiegoolie bird for his turn. This is a bird with very short legs who, every time he lands, says 'Ooh me goulies, ooh me goulies.' His unrestrained mirth was a joy to see and an image I will hold dear.
Kerena Swan
Always a great read Cary. Right up my street! (Old saying from my Dad) I remember pulling some Christmas ribbon out of my cats bum one Christmas, wish I’d won tweezers in my cracker for that ....😂