100 posts

12.39am ( awake since 7am)

Is it one day or the next. Wednesday or Thursday.

It is past the witching hour, beside me a red cheeked child gently breathing. Downstairs my cousin is talking to Patrick.

100 posts. 100 days past.

I ran. I knocked on my friends door, he has a yellow corridor, I collected the keys to his music studio on route to the garden centre. I managed to buy the seed potatoes. I had been concerned that there would be none left. I was lucky that there were still some and they haven’t been replaced by the lily bulbs. I buy two different types of potatoes, shallots and red onions. The allotment will need working on, I have neglected it over the winter, again another year without manure for the rhubarb.

Going back home the ruck sack heavy with vegetables, I tried running but it hurt my back, so instead I walked at speed. I past a middle aged couple walking their dog and talking about DIY. I past an older man with a dog who remarked that somebody had drained the canal. A barge was grounded on what little was left. The canal is surprisingly shallow, so it only takes a couple of lock gates to be left open or closed to purge it of water. Sometimes the draining  happens in the summer and you can see the large fish lying still in the murky sludge of the bottom, probably close to suffocation.

Not much to say. I spent the day trying to get Naoise to use the toilet as he is extremely constipated. I have tried everything, water, fruit, lactolose, back to water again. Massaging the stomach. Warm baths. Warm showers. Encouragement. Kindness. Cuddles. We had a pyjama day.

I blew an egg for him to paint.

I sorted and tidied and sorted and tidied and cleaned and dusted and hoovered and washed dishes and cooked dinner for my parents. I washed dishes and laid tables and placed clothes to dry on a radiator, and washed the stairs, placed shoes together answered messages and cooked soup and cooked pasta and warmed up an apple strudel. I did the same when my cousin and her daughter arrived. Then we cleared more plastic toys and bits and bobs and this and that and found the bed for her and her daughter  to sleep on and I apologised about the horrid black mold on the walls. It is a damp, moldy old house. It will always be a damp moldy old house.

I am bored and this is dull and its not the triumphant 1oo th post that I had envisioned. I am tired and there is not much to say about a day spent inside, inside, inside. I hope that my dreams take me somewhere else other than here…. perhaps to a field of sunflowers heads full of heavy seed bowing towards the sun.

Naoise breathing is so sweet, the air being inhaled and exhaled, a gentle rhythm. He breaths and breaths and breaths.

 

 

 

 

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