Eggs and Baskets, or Basket Case
Tulip mania abound. London parks are riotious with colour and homelessness. I: alone hit the town. Crisp air, therefore I am wearing my fur coat still. And have gained pounds, thanks to my knee(s). No thanks to my knee(s), once my best assets. Awaiting to hear the x-ray results. I am in no mood for a cup of coffee with a pal. Somethings never change, even in the aftermarth of a pandemic ( a pandemic long gone in these glorious lands). Not when my knees are bad and my husband is lost. Lost to me at least.
I should device a cunning plan to bring him back. A secret elixir. A method. A scientific formula. I should have unravelled the secret of perfect numbers in my youth, my mind wonders off again as I take snapshots of tulips- unfolding like silk turbans of Sultans of exotic lands before my eyes.
Across the park, Indian Princesses in silk saris are posing for photo shoots. Well, this is London. Post Pandemic. The land of dreams and India dreaming. The bored looking photographer spots me taking shots of London Dreaming again. He comes and stands two metre apart (he is a London boy like the Indian Princeses- a true Londoner like me) and asks to take a few shots of me. Me donned in brown fur and harem pants in brown. Perhaps he is after contrast I reason. His artistic eyes searching for winter against the backdrop of optimistic colours of spring. Sure I say, why not for this is not the first time that this has happened to me. I am 45.
Later I tell my husband, he needles me so that I shed a silent tear. I can't ring mother and tell her about her beloved son in law's sharp tongue. "I have put all my eggs in my husband's basket!" My inner voice cuts me in half. Literally, we have two kids, two beautiful, perfect kids. One needs his secondary school sorted pretty sharpish. The other needs a little help with literacy. "Or am I a basket case?"
On the school run, a fellow dad from my daughter's class crashes his car on the lamppost inches away from me. Me on the pavement. There has to be a lesson learnt. I ask him how he is, he is asking me how I am. We are both fine. The car is a write off, I imagine.
"You must change that route," my husband hectors me simply. Is he the man I fell in love? I keep away from him sticking to my quarters in the house meanwhile. He tells me that he booked a holiday for Phuket for our anniversary. So perhaps he is still in love WITH me but his coldness say otherwise.