A Dream Ago
It is a beautiful day, blowy, but the sun is shining and warming the winter chills of the last 4 months. Thank God spring is coming. I love British winters: Wrapping up cozy in the cold sharp weather, and this year I don’t recall much rain, just cold and sunny. But it is always a joy knowing Spring is just around the corner. How English of me to open talking about the weather!
I have spent the last couple of weeks getting on top of the tangled web of paperwork that now runs my life. I was drowning and now at least am treading water. In my efforts to get all the official stuff sorted I opened the trust fund account that the government has launched for children Louis’ age and younger. This was the final document I had to bat back in a table-tennis match of bureaucracy that has clogged up the last few days.
Still, despite my best efforts to get everything in order I am unable to put my hands on my passport. With only 40 minutes to go before my scheduled appointment at the bank, and a 40 minute drop-off at nursery to make beforehand, I fly around the flat turning over piles of bills, rummaging through draws, checking three, four, five times in the places it should be - could only be - whilst filing through my mind for the last time I remember having it.
“Iceland. Was that the last time?” I ask myself. “Or did I use it more recently for ID?”.
The black cloud of doom looms at the edge of my mind fearing the passport had been used for ID and, falling out of an envelope, had been lost.
I grab my birth certificate, push Louis’ coat and shoes on, plant him in his pushchair and rush out of the door.
“Bugger, bugger, bugger where did I put the damn thing?” I chide out loud to myself, before noticing a man waiting in his car watching and hearing me with a puzzled and wary expression on his face. I decide to keep my thoughts to myself but continue to rummage through my head for clues.
I am off to Rome on Monday for a city break with Louis and really looking forward to exploring a new place. One that I have almost no knowledge of I realize since having read the pocket guidebook I bought yesterday. It promises to be spectacular though. I can’t wait to introduce Louis to his first taste of travel, culture and exploration that I hope will embroider the rest of his life.
OK. Child trust fund opened. Job done. Need to remove my big padded winter jacket and let the air cool my skin. I slip off the coat and lodge it under my arm. A wolf whistle blows in my direction but I ignore it…well, outwardly anyway. Secretly I acknowledge my recently purchased red top, nipped in at the waist, is obviously doing the trick.
Arriving home I flick on the kettle for coffee and dispatch two slices of bread in the toaster. “Right, I am going to launch a thorough search of everywhere it might be. If anyone dare phone me I am not answering”. It crosses my mind how lovely it would be to no longer have the burden of work phone calls to disturb my day: The prodding sound of my ringtone pulling at my hem. I would love to be free of the pestering.
Having made a complete and thorough search of all the usual suspect places, I move to the boxes, still unpacked from the house move, that sit dustily on my shelves – the wallflowers of my paperwork life.
“No. No. No. No, no, no, nope”. Pulling all 15 of my handbags out I methodically go through each emptying them of lipsticks, dummies, coins and, oh…. A baby nail-clipper…thought I had lost that.
My eyes move up the shelf to 3 books waiting patiently to play their next part. Glancing through their titles my eyes fix on ‘Bridge Across Forever’. Mmm. And there’s the letter from Mike tucked away in its pages. I take the letter out and carry it through to the kitchen where I flick on the kettle again and make my coffee.
“Just pop the toast in the toaster for a few seconds to warm it through” I decide, and stirring my sugar around the hot coffee I begin reading the letter.
I recall the main thrust but not the tone or pace. It is calm, wistful, retrospective and…comforting. Through the scenes Mike’s word describe I can picture him at the back of the plane looking out at the night sky. India sighs below and waves him onto his ‘real’ life back home. The half-cut Irish man stumbles out of the toilet cubicle and tips his imaginary hat at Mike as he makes his way back to their shared seat.
“Pop!” shit! Forgot to take the toast out early. Now it’s burnt. I put another couple of slices in and throw away the charcoal remains of the first attempt. The burnt smell tickles my nose and I open the back door to allow the sun-kissed breeze to infiltrate the air indoors. Wind rustles through trees and I hear my wind chime clip-clopping in the breeze. The noise from outside wakes me up to the silence within and I walk over to the stereo and replay the Erykah Badu album already in the CD drive.
Returning to the letter I am now in a flat, three storeys up looking out the window at the streetlights of Manly and toward the golden haze of Sydney centre. I imagine the fireworks blooming in the distance on special occasions. I look around the room at the sofa and pile of books awaiting their bookcase. The television in the corner and a pile of CD’s stacked next to it. An ashtray sits on the side with two cigarette butts nestling in a bed of ash.
As Mike pulls himself out of his description and addresses me directly, so I pull myself out of my own imagination and listen to his message, “Wait a little longer. Be patient. Time will tell. Your Michael.”
I sip my coffee and munch on my jam-covered toast.
Returning to my task I opt to try the desk draw once more. There, crouching in a corner right at the back of the draw behind an Orange phone manual, lies my passport.
I have spent the last couple of weeks getting on top of the tangled web of paperwork that now runs my life. I was drowning and now at least am treading water. In my efforts to get all the official stuff sorted I opened the trust fund account that the government has launched for children Louis’ age and younger. This was the final document I had to bat back in a table-tennis match of bureaucracy that has clogged up the last few days.
Still, despite my best efforts to get everything in order I am unable to put my hands on my passport. With only 40 minutes to go before my scheduled appointment at the bank, and a 40 minute drop-off at nursery to make beforehand, I fly around the flat turning over piles of bills, rummaging through draws, checking three, four, five times in the places it should be - could only be - whilst filing through my mind for the last time I remember having it.
“Iceland. Was that the last time?” I ask myself. “Or did I use it more recently for ID?”.
The black cloud of doom looms at the edge of my mind fearing the passport had been used for ID and, falling out of an envelope, had been lost.
I grab my birth certificate, push Louis’ coat and shoes on, plant him in his pushchair and rush out of the door.
“Bugger, bugger, bugger where did I put the damn thing?” I chide out loud to myself, before noticing a man waiting in his car watching and hearing me with a puzzled and wary expression on his face. I decide to keep my thoughts to myself but continue to rummage through my head for clues.
I am off to Rome on Monday for a city break with Louis and really looking forward to exploring a new place. One that I have almost no knowledge of I realize since having read the pocket guidebook I bought yesterday. It promises to be spectacular though. I can’t wait to introduce Louis to his first taste of travel, culture and exploration that I hope will embroider the rest of his life.
OK. Child trust fund opened. Job done. Need to remove my big padded winter jacket and let the air cool my skin. I slip off the coat and lodge it under my arm. A wolf whistle blows in my direction but I ignore it…well, outwardly anyway. Secretly I acknowledge my recently purchased red top, nipped in at the waist, is obviously doing the trick.
Arriving home I flick on the kettle for coffee and dispatch two slices of bread in the toaster. “Right, I am going to launch a thorough search of everywhere it might be. If anyone dare phone me I am not answering”. It crosses my mind how lovely it would be to no longer have the burden of work phone calls to disturb my day: The prodding sound of my ringtone pulling at my hem. I would love to be free of the pestering.
Having made a complete and thorough search of all the usual suspect places, I move to the boxes, still unpacked from the house move, that sit dustily on my shelves – the wallflowers of my paperwork life.
“No. No. No. No, no, no, nope”. Pulling all 15 of my handbags out I methodically go through each emptying them of lipsticks, dummies, coins and, oh…. A baby nail-clipper…thought I had lost that.
My eyes move up the shelf to 3 books waiting patiently to play their next part. Glancing through their titles my eyes fix on ‘Bridge Across Forever’. Mmm. And there’s the letter from Mike tucked away in its pages. I take the letter out and carry it through to the kitchen where I flick on the kettle again and make my coffee.
“Just pop the toast in the toaster for a few seconds to warm it through” I decide, and stirring my sugar around the hot coffee I begin reading the letter.
I recall the main thrust but not the tone or pace. It is calm, wistful, retrospective and…comforting. Through the scenes Mike’s word describe I can picture him at the back of the plane looking out at the night sky. India sighs below and waves him onto his ‘real’ life back home. The half-cut Irish man stumbles out of the toilet cubicle and tips his imaginary hat at Mike as he makes his way back to their shared seat.
“Pop!” shit! Forgot to take the toast out early. Now it’s burnt. I put another couple of slices in and throw away the charcoal remains of the first attempt. The burnt smell tickles my nose and I open the back door to allow the sun-kissed breeze to infiltrate the air indoors. Wind rustles through trees and I hear my wind chime clip-clopping in the breeze. The noise from outside wakes me up to the silence within and I walk over to the stereo and replay the Erykah Badu album already in the CD drive.
Returning to the letter I am now in a flat, three storeys up looking out the window at the streetlights of Manly and toward the golden haze of Sydney centre. I imagine the fireworks blooming in the distance on special occasions. I look around the room at the sofa and pile of books awaiting their bookcase. The television in the corner and a pile of CD’s stacked next to it. An ashtray sits on the side with two cigarette butts nestling in a bed of ash.
As Mike pulls himself out of his description and addresses me directly, so I pull myself out of my own imagination and listen to his message, “Wait a little longer. Be patient. Time will tell. Your Michael.”
I sip my coffee and munch on my jam-covered toast.
Returning to my task I opt to try the desk draw once more. There, crouching in a corner right at the back of the draw behind an Orange phone manual, lies my passport.
posted by Rebecca Valentine at 3:50 pm
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