Ssssh….everyone’s asleep.It’s 4 something am, and through the inky blackness of the window Orion is winking back at me. The hills and mountains quiet, perhaps just the odd family of Wild Boar down below my house, foraging and lucky to have escaped the trigger happy Puente-enders.
Just Marco for company here, rolled into a tight ball by my side and snoring lightly. A hand to his head makes him do that little stray-dog flinch – they never lose it. He’s never even been told off in 8 years of gracing us with his presence, but still has that reproachful look.
Why am I awake? It might be that bottle of white I greedily guzzled. It might be the fire crackling and hissing outside the bedroom – meaning Stan is also awake on the sofa, Kindle in hand, Jeremy Kyle idly wondering who might be the father of a choice of 27,ooo…ah throw a coin in the air and forget the Lie Detector. Why is he so addicted to that dross? It depresses me no end.
What else? Thoughts of The Boy, thousands of miles away. Did he go out? Did he remember his insulin, something to eat? Maybe it’s The Girl, growing up too fast, the novio just a little too close for (my) comfort these days. I’m not so old, I know an avaricious or lavacious look a mile off. Yeah, I know, I’ll have to shut up and roll with it.
But I’m still wide awake. My father, who always sits on my shoulder this time of year, perhaps it’s him. Blame the Da. The last couple of days I can smell and taste his 6am fried brown soda bread, and strongly stewed tea, placed on the old long knocked-out tiled hearth of home. “There you are, Car – fire’s lit.” A dollop of congealed Chef sauce, a heavy hand with the salt. Hey, maybe even a rasher. Thanks Da for the high blood pressure, it was worth it.
I don’t know…it could be my throat. Not a lurgy – but a potato 🙂 I choked – not to be dramatic, but almost to death – on Sunday when one lodged in my throat. I managed to hurl it up. Sorry it that’s put you off lunch. When I came back from the bathroom, eyes red, clutching my neck, Stan was still chewing, Isobel still texting. Imagine, all the disasters I have avoided in life by a hair’s breadth and I choke to death on a bloody roast spud. Imagine the epitaph…She Went Back to Her Roots.
Enough of this, I may as well get up. There’ll be a girl for breakfast and there’s soda bread to make. 🙂