Dates

Washing floors is not in my style. Washing anything is not in my style. except for laundry, but then I don't wash anything then, I just shove things into a clever machine which washed them for me. The rest is just not my style. And I'm not trying to be sassy about anything. I know, I know, I've left my mum's house years ago and so I guess I should have learnt a thing or two. But I haven't. There are so many machines to do it. And I just found out two days ago that I didn't even know how to turn the oven on. Bad I know, but I fail miserably in the housekeeping exam. And perhaps I would have tried washing something if I was at least average in doing it. But I'm not, I cannot for life's sake understand how to wash floors. I'd just shove all the water on the floor and my Bluthner Boudoir would be ruined. It's a thing for experts, not for yours truly. And as long as I have someone to do it, I'll be ok. It's nice coming in and seeing everything so clean, so everything in its proper place. I don't know how to do that, and anyway it would take ages and it's just not worth the while. But on a Saturday night my cats have decided it's water and food play time and messed the place up. And my help can only make it on Thursday, so it's had to be DIY. Funnily enough it didn't make me swear under or above my breath. I just had to do it. It's done now and I don't think the floor shines but as long as it's clean what the hell. And now I remember, I was doing exactly the same thing this time 8 years ago, for a very different reason. Yes I remember well. It's not that I am some Einstein historian who remember things so specifically. But I remember this. Not for a happy reason, but then I can't do anything about it. I remember the night leading on to eight years ago come tomorrow. It is etched in my brain, as are etched eight years ago tomorrow. Some years I am not really aware of the date looming up and yet I start feeling uneasy. It's happened this time, I have spent all week trying to figure out why I wasn't feeling very pleased at myself and at life. Until a very innocent, what-date-is-today brought it all on as if someone suddenly threw a bucket of ice at me. Then I knew. Then I knew why the block, why the lurching of my stomach, why I suddenly just wasn't interested in food anymore (no, not even chocolate), why I suddenly felt so immune and aloof as regards everything. Please do not tell me that a date is just a date, and that a number is just a number. Try telling a 100 year old that. Back then, a number was really just a number. Today, just let me be with myself. It will be over soon.