I got to the gym tonight and realised that I was struggling to do everything.
I had not even finished the warm-up before my legs started to ache, and I was huffing and puffing like a set of leaky bellows.
There were no words to describe my relief when the fire alarm went off halfway through, and we all had to assemble, shivering, out in the street, looking ridiculous in gym kit, especially me, think tie-dyed rainbow T-shirt and badly-fitting sports bra.
All the same, it had drawn a welcome halt to my weary rowing nowhere efforts, and I was embarrassingly thankful.
Of course nothing was on fire, and after a few minutes we all drifted back inside again.
When I returned to rowing-machine self-torture it occurred to me that I had forgotten both to have an afternoon nap, and also to eat anything all day, unless you count a couple of Mothers’ Day chocolates, which you shouldn’t. Even the strawberry flavoured ones cannot be included as part of your Five A Day.
This seemed to provide a satisfactory explanation for my lack of physical prowess, especially when added to a general lack of basic natural inclination. Obviously one cannot turn out superb athletic performances on the basis of five hours sleep and some strong coffee.
The reason for my general self-neglect was that I had determined to get the house clean in the wake of the children’s departure. We are entertaining Ted and Mrs. Ted tomorrow, and so tomorrow will be occupied by anxiously flapping about and cooking, in pretty much equal quantities. On Friday we are going to go to a funeral, and also to Oliver’s school play. Therefore today was the only remaining time for making everywhere clean.
I like living in four floors of tall, thin house very much indeed, until the moment when the hoover needs to be dragged up the stairs to the top floor.
Despite all of my efforts I am still not fit enough to do this without panting and wheezing like a geriatric trombonist.
When I had recovered I started at the top and worked my way down, scrubbing and brushing and wiping and polishing, secure in the knowledge that my efforts will for ever be unappreciated by anybody except me.
I appreciated them. I like to have shiny taps and a house that smells of furniture polish and lavender.
I changed the sheets and pegged washing in the garden and cleaned black fingerprints off the bannisters. I washed the hearth, although this turned out to be wasted when I opened the door and some charcoal logs fell out, leaving tarry black marks all over the tiles. I was too idle to wash them again, so nobody will ever know that I did it.
By the time Mark came home I was feeling weary and discouraged with housework. He had got his maths class to do, so he disappeared again almost immediately, which was when I thought it would be a good idea to go to the gym, and of course it wasn’t.
I went to sit on the taxi rank, and after a while Mark came to join me. We listened together to Steven Hawking’s Reith Lecture, and felt very sad that he had gone.
I don’t think I have understood a single sentence that he has ever said, but I admired him massively. I have taken his book out of the library twice now, but it remained incomprehensible. This did not matter. He carried the weight of needing to understand the universe on our behalf. I did not need to worry about it when Steven Hawking was in the world to understand it for me.
When the lecture had finished I opened my emails and there’s was one from my parents, explaining that they had benevolently given us some money towards Oliver’s air fare.
This was a brilliant thing. Relief washed over me like a warm liquid.
I had not realised that I was terribly worried about it until the moment that I realised I wasn’t any more.
We are going to stop driving taxis early and be in bed by midnight.
I am looking forward to that with my whole soul.
Hurrah for my parents.
