My kitchen is a jamboree bag, because on any given day, you’ll never know what you might find in it. Would it be the scene of a mass murder? The location of a horde of pillaging Saxons? Or the site of a 1980s acid party?
Last weekend for instance, my poor kitchen with it’s solid wood cabinets and marble countertops, bore all the hallmarks of a herd of buffalo rampaging through it. Not only did it appear as though a violent and frenzied charge had taken place, it then seemed like the herd had made their way back from said rampage and decided to stop and fornicate upon my worktops, thus spilling everything onto the floor.
Today however, It was the turn of the food fight in a crack house look. But where I see crack house food fight, the Womb Fruit sees only a couple of crumbs and a speck of dust.
So, usually after looking around to assess the damage, I quickly calculate the amount of time that it takes for me to clean the cooker, scrub the counters, mop the floor and wash the dishes, as well as the type of pain that would come with each of these tasks…and then I promptly burst into tears and hobble back upstairs to hide under the duvet.
This time, the tears didn’t last long however. Five minutes later and like an arthritic tortoise on steroids, I soon set to work on getting my crack house looking like a poppy den, which is one step up from crack so I call that progress. I even made myself some toast and a cup of coffee afterwards. The downside to all that activity, was that I couldn’t carry said items up the stairs and so just stood there, cup and plate in hand and wept instead.
I had calculated correctly the parts of my body that would pay for my domesticity, and that’s exactly what life has become, a series of calculations.
Let me explain further by way of a few hastily constructed diagrams.
In the morning, I often have to calculate whether or not to take a shower before I iron the Womb-fruit’s school uniform, or if it’s best to iron first and shower later. Now having a shower depletes any energy that I may have and so a rest is needed, usually for up to 20 minutes as time idly ticks by. The upshot of this is that I’m then late in smoothing the crinkles from the Fruit Of My Loom’s uniform, thus making him late for school. However, if I iron first, then I will be in too much pain to take a shower later.
The same principle also works for cooking versus cleaning.
Similarly, a day of shopping allows for more calculations.
Each trip to the shopping Mall means calculating the distance of each escalator and lift to the exact shop/floor I wish to visit. The journey and mode of transport itself must also be carefully calculated and arranged because time spent sitting down means less time where I’m able to stand.
You may discern that there is a pattern to every outcome, and that pattern is time spent in bed. But this varies from task to task and can be anything from 20 minutes to a few days. Everything from socialising to putting on my tights before I leave the house and the cost that each one has upon my body, has to be ascertained.
And thus, my life becomes a series of calculations.