In A World gone Mad: Friday 8 May 2020 ...2

I felt very guilty last week, I’ve been posting my writing on a writing site I use but, because I was working to deadline on a client’s book, I never did any reviewing for anybody else. I’m a firm believer that if you’re posting your work on any creative site, you should review at least twice as many as you post. So, job’s a good `un and I’ve redeemed myself this morning.

My garden looks lovely. I enjoy the calm it gives me potting my plants and sitting in the quiet—especially first thing in the morning after I’ve done the first wave of crazy and before the second one hits.

I had an OCD meltdown on Wednesday. We went shopping and Max allowed me my head in B&M’s garden department, it was my birthday and I got away with murder.  I came out with pots, potting soil and another ten plants.  I was looking forward to a relaxing couple of hours re-potting in the garden. The first rule of buying plants from a supermarket type outlet is to repot them and give them a good water as soon as you get them, they don’t tend to look after them properly and I like nothing better than the challenge of a half-dead, half price plant that looks very sorry for itself.

The sun was blazing so the whole gang were out. It was my birthday and like every day it was all about Arthur. Everything is all about Arthur, he takes over every second of silence, every conversation, and has to be involved in everything. I was childish and selfish—it’s just another day—but it was my day—not his.

My viola has come from nothing—a tiny plug plant to taking over a dinner plate sized pot.  I decided to transplant half of it from the mother plant to use as a bedding filler in some of my big pots.

I had a physical fight with Arthur over a plant pot. I tilted the mother plant and squeezed to release it from the pot. As it came away, I felt the plant coming apart. Arthur jumped up from his seat and grabbed the bottom of the pot, trying to help, but he pulled on it.

‘No Arthur love, that’ not going to work.

‘It’s okay Arthur, that’s not working, it’s okay, I’ve got it.

‘Arthur, let go please, the plant is going to fall apart.’

At this point after asking him nicely three times, he’s fighting with me to get the pot out of my hands. I gave a great heave on it, almost knocking him into next week.

‘Damn well let go, please.’

I’d snapped at him again.

However, It was Max who sent my OCD into full overdrive.  The plants are my thing, but he had to interfere. I’d bought five of the largest square tubs I could find—nice big ones. And spent ten minutes planning my planting.  I like to see soil on initial plant out. So, in the first and last tubs, I wanted a large papyrus at the back with a few Dahlia in the foreground for colour. I like format and pattern Each plant has room to grown, breathe and spread to fill the tubs by the end of the season. In the middle pot I wanted five fuchsia, one in each corner and one in the middle and yes, they are only the diameter of a saucer at present, but it gave them plenty of room to fill the tubs. The other two tubs were to be filled with a central plant and one with marigold in the foreground and one with viola. I put a single lavender in the foreground of one of my established clematis. Max took over, every pot is crammed and fighting with plants that don’t necessarily belong together. He’s unpotted all of my nursery plant pots that had juvenile plants that I only put in last week and wanted to leave until they’d outgrown their current pots. He’s jumbled everything with everything else with no thought or conformity. Yes, it does look nice now, but there’s no room for anything to grow. He’s put a privet hedge in with two fuchsia, a pink plant with no label that I wanted to see what it is, some of the viola, two of my beautiful Iris, some geraniums and a dwarf rose tree—there’s not a single gap and everything is jumbled together.

My OCD was shouting at me, but I vowed to stay calm, I’ll give it a week or two and start transplanting when he’s not looking—it’s his space too. I get very possessive about my plants and like to do it all myself another example of how I’m not a team player, it has to be my way.

It ruined what was supposed to be my lovely afternoon though.

And then we had another Arthur meltdown. We were going for a walk in Abbey Woods. Andy has been building himself up—he’s very slight—over the last few weeks and he wants to start running again. He used to do a lot of running when he was playing football as part of his training but gave it up when the drugs took over. I was flattered that he was coming out with us for the first time—especially on my birthday. I’d resigned myself to the fact that the walk would be all about Arthur, he chats bubbles the whole time when I just want to hold my man’s hand and listen to the birds.

‘Where’s my cap, Boy?’

‘It’s in your room, dad, but you don’t need it today.’

‘No, it isn’t. somebody’s stolen my cap.’

‘Why would anybody want to steal your cap?’

‘I’m telling you; somebody has been in my room and stolen my cap.’

I wasn’t very gracious:

‘Oh, here we go again.

 It was my birthday—I know I’m harping on about this and I realise that I’m very unfair and a total child and I just wanted the crazy to stop for one hour on my birthday—because it should, it’s only fair because it was my day and our current normal should have been normal, normal because it was my birthday.

‘Have you taken my cap, young lady?’

‘No, I haven’t touched your cap.’

‘Here dad, here’s your cap, it was on your bedpost, right where we said it was.’

‘Where’s my keys, boy?’

Me: ‘For Christ Sake.’

‘You don’t need keys dad?’

‘Well how am I going to get back in, then?’

‘I’ve got keys, Dad.’

‘What you’ve got the keys to my house? Well where are my keys?’

And so it went on and ended in Max getting frustrated, me saying that we shouldn’t bother going out, Andy getting frustrated and Arthur shouting his bloody head off…until we all got settled in the car, with Andy Me and Teagan—in moult— all squished up on the back seat. Teagan is a huge dog and takes up the three seats by herself.

Despite Arthur –and he did his best to ruin it, we had a lovely walk and Andy did two circuits: 223 steep steps up and a mile and a half of forestry a circuit, on his first time out and has been paying for it since.

I was annoyed again after dinner.

‘I’m cooking your favourite for dinner tonight for your birthday, darling.’

‘Fantastic, corned beef hash with thick, cheesy bechamel sauce on top?’

‘No’

‘Oh, your homemade nacho’s?’

‘No,’

I just don’t know when to stop digging.

‘Yay, Chile.’

‘No. Okay, so not your favourite meal then.’

Andy was laughing and I didn’t dare guess anymore. ‘Sarah, just stop guessing.’

‘I’m making Cottage pie?’

‘With bechamel sauce?’

‘No, with bog standard frozen peas.’

‘Perfect, my favourite—in all honesty that would have been my next guess, but everything you make me is fantastic.’

 Apart from when he still tries to hide olives and fishy stuff in things. He knows damned well that I loath olives and seafood, but he still tries to force feed me it and thinks that if he does what you do with a child and try to disguise them as something else, that I won’t notice.

We had a lovely meal, but I was that way out, and Arthur’s presence annoyed me.

‘This is the funniest fish I’ve ever tested.’

‘It’s cottage pie Arthur.’

‘It doesn’t even taste of fish.’

Andy tends to eat in his room and rarely joins us at the table. One meal, alone with my partner would have been so nice. Arthur had the cheek to tell Andy off for putting his elbow on the table. After coping with his disgusting manners and habits, how dare he. Even the way he eats annoys me.  He opens his mouth before his food is anywhere near his face and then he lifts his fork in slow-motion to his mouth with his eyes closed. He reminds me of a tortoise, or a mawing baby looking for the tit with his open mouth searching side to side for his food. If he’d open his bloody eye when he’s putting food in his gob, he might drop less of it.

And then he did it.

He stood up and shuffled to the kitchen.

‘He’s spitting in the sink.’

Max rolled his eyes.

‘Let it go today, Sarah, I’ll speak to him tomorrow.’

What bloody good is that, he’ll have forgotten he’s done it in two minutes and deny it. And no, I won’t bloody leave it. It’s disgusting.

‘I know it is, but not now, hey. He’s confused enough today without another row.’

‘So, you’re taking his side against mine?’

Max got up. He’d served everybody while we’d sat at the table and told us to get it while it was hot and not wait for him, so he’d only just started eating. He did everything for everybody else and he’s got me acting like a prima donna. I don’t blame him being tetchy.

‘What are you doing.’

‘I’m going to shout at my dad. That’s what you want isn’t it, to upset him when he’s already as mixed up as hell today?’

‘No, leave it. Get your dinner.’  

But I sulked for a good hour.

We managed to get him to bed at nine, by lying to him and telling him it was late. I didn’t feel guilty. It took another half hour to get him settled. At  nine thirty, he came out of his room and shouted from the top of the stairs.

‘Max.’

‘Yes, Dad.’

‘I’ll go to bed, then shall I?’

‘Yes, Dad.’

Are we not going out tonight, then?

We had a game of MTG until he went to sleep and then had a music night.