Really it is. I kid you not.
Absolutely, unequivocally testing me. Pushing my buttons. Stretching my patience.
All in the space of the last 24 hours.
Weekends are a highly valued commodity where I come from, as I’m sure they are for you, so I like to plan a bit of stuff but also make sure I have time to chill out, avoid doing chores, write – you know the drill.
(The current silence tells me that the wet washing is ‘ready’ and will not hang itself out.)
With a weekend plan including a photos viewing Friday night on the way home, a haircut on Saturday morning and then off for a mani-pedi Saturday afternoon, I was looking forward to firstly feeling rather productive then followed by some serious chilling as a busy Saturday mellowed into a Sunday of pottering about.
So Friday morning I pick up a message from my hairdresser asking me whether I could turn up 15mins early. Sure, I think, no problem. I call back to confirm that this is ok to be told ‘No it’s ok we worked something out – turn up at 11.’ Great news but I’m glad I rang back instead of turning up early – tolerating lateness is not my strong suit. Anyway, moving on.
I leave work a little early on Friday to get to my appointment to view my photos at 6pm (a 90min trip but it is a stop-off on my regular 2hr commute home. I know it’s long. Don’t ask.) I reach Clapham Junction station which is about a 15min walk from the studio and get a message – which had obviously arrived during the underground portion of my journey – asking me to come at 7pm instead. With an hour and a half of travelling under my belt already, my weary brain shouts ‘NOOOOO!’. Long story short – we settled on 6.15pm instead.
To kill the time, I take myself off to Caffe Nero for a white chocolate and raspberry muffin and a soya cappucino, thinking I will just chill for a little bit before wandering up Lavender Hill towards the studio. Another message arrives, this time from the Mani-Pedi salon. There’s a problem with my 2pm appointment on Saturday – can I come earlier? Brain swears loudly. Despite the ensuing conversation confirming that someone else will be available at the time of my booking to pretti-fy my paws, I feel mildly nervous walking up Lavender Hill, wondering whether I will receive an apologetic phone call Saturday morning (or better yet, be mucked about upon arrival). I have next Friday off so I call back and agree to have pretty paws then.
Photo viewing goes well (pics look amaaaazing – I will collect my chosen ones mid August and share with you) and I go to bed last night, thinking I will get up early-ish and dash into Kingston to do my errands before my hair appointment. I’m up at 8.30am and, feeling mildly awake and presentable after my ablutions, am eating some vegemite toast before heading out.
There’s another message.
My hairdresser (a new one, the lovely A having decided to embark on some world travelling for a while) has called in sick. Brain sighs resignedly. Little voice in my head reminds me to ‘breathe’.
I’m going at 12.30.
In, out. In, out. Breathing, breathing. Time for a coffee. And a post.
And if it’s really lucky, the washing will get hung out to dry.
ps…as I’m a little intolerant of lateness and would really love a chilled out, low-irritant birthday, I thought it prudent to remind you that there are now only 9 sleeps to go. We are now into single figures peeps so don’t be late – I can just see the good ship 42 coming into view.