Friday, June 28, 2013

Friday morning

James lays Samuel down next to me. He spent the night breakdancing in his cot (Samuel, that is - not James). I am tired. He is wide awake. He smiles. I smile. I peel myself off the mattress, prepare a bottle, trip over some stacking cups and think, 'I'll tidy those stacking cups away later.' I don't tidy the stacking cups away later.

Samuel's just gone to sleep. I dry my hair. I throw on my clothes like a whirling dervish. A godawful rumble erupts from outside and the whole building shakes. I suspect a sink hole, and wonder whether we'll feature on BBC Breakfast in some capacity tomorrow. I look outside and see that it's not a sink hole - it's roadworks and they're right outside Samuel's bedroom. I look at the baby monitor. Samuel is breakdancing. I sigh. I go to collect him from his cot. He smiles. I smile. I sit him down next to me while I colour in my face with Touche Éclat. I show him how to put blusher on. He looks unimpressed and puts Mister Clicky Turtle in his mouth.

We are waiting in the church hall's soggy vestibule. Outside the rain is pouring. Inside the baby music class before ours is finishing up. Two mums next to me who I don't know are talking about how they burn in the sun. I interrupt them and tell them I am so translucently pale that when I sit on a white plastic sun lounger, I am invisible to the human eye. They smile politely. I don't know why I just said that. I am tired. Samuel throws up on his trousers. We go in and we merrily shake and chew maracas for three-quarters of an hour. He smiles. I smile.

'Did you know that the wipes they use to clean the instruments here have alcohol in them?' asks my friend at the end of the class. I peer at our babies, trying to detect any signs of drunkenness. My findings are inconclusive. Me and Samuel leave. We slalom back through the wheelie bins of collection day. We get in to the flat and it looks like there's been a humanitarian disaster. It's exactly as we left it. I notice a funny smell. It could be anything. Nappy bin. Fruit peelings. Cunningly concealed cat sick. 'I'll look for the source of the smell later,' I think. I don't look for the source of the smell later. I pop Samuel in his high chair and start to prepare his lunch. It's pretty much the afternoon now. I hand him a rice cake to snack on and he smiles like he's been presented with an Olympic gold medal. I smile.

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