Sometimes I just go into the spare room and watch my shirts dry. It’s pretty relaxing, in a way, a sort of zen experience, i guess, or at least the sort of experience that the TV tells you is a zen one. Just watching the shirts hanging there, swaying softly in the blow of the air conditioning, giving off all that moisture into the warm air, it’s pretty cool, really. Gives you time to think and reflect, which I don’t really get anymore.
So apart from these stolen minutes it’s all go in our house now. Marie has to go football, and then Sandy to Scouts, and then they all need to be picked up again, discretely, so I’m not too embarrassing by my presence. Then I need to get the car back, so the missus can go out and I’m left to shout about homework and going to bed on time. And that’s just this evening. A quiet one. The weekends are the worst, a whirl of shopping and cleaning and running around, with only a few quiet hours with the odd glass of wine and compromised TV viewing.
It never used to be like this. We used to have time. We used to go out, just the two of us, on a moments notice. Just be able to turn up and see what movie was on, or hop on a plane for a city break without six month notice and complex babysitting arrangements. Note – I’ve got to stop calling it babysitting. But I can’t recall the last time we just did something, out of nowhere, and I can’t even remember what the feeling of having nothing to do is like.
So I sneak up here, to the spare room, and watch the shirts dry. It’s my moment, just for me.
And you know what? It’s enough.