The stark domestic reality

I walk downstairs to be greeted by a royal mess. There is dog hair everywhere, dust, pillows from the coach are on the floor (why can’t you just lock up the damn dogs during the night!!). The kitchen table has a permanent film of dirt over it. Flies are hoovering over a fruit basket which apparently is harbouring something well past due date. For every pillow, flee infested blanket and scattered paper I pick up, I give off a sigh; one that grows deeper with every action. It’s good that my husband has already left because this would have been the start of a quarrel. Instead I direct Victoria to empty the dishwasher. I forget to tell her to fill it up again. Or perhaps purposely omitting it, knowing this would only result in a verbal argument.

After running up and down a couple of times, every time for an item I’ve forgotten, I’m ready to go. The soft sunlight hits me, and as it warms my face, so does my heart. My mind is laid to rest, at least for the 10 hours that work and travel will provide needed distraction.

Our living room on a better day