Friday, 22 January 2010

The lasagne and all it stood for.


How yummy does that look. Sometimes I'm in the middle of doing something, remember what I used to be like for almost, oh, MY ENTIRE TWENTIES ... and shake my head at the absurdly different way my life is lived now.

Once upon a time, I would keep an overflowing ashtray on my bedside table (that was actually a crate). Light up a smoke first thing in the morning, wondering how on earth was I going to get through another stupid day on the stupid planet.

Today, I cooked THE BEST LASAGNE EVER. I usually cook them well, but sometimes they are too dry. I had the brainwave of pouring some chicken stock over it after the assembly, before you put the cheese on. It tasted so beautiful. I got so excited. Dave got excited. We all did. We are big on food, in this house.

I am so different to who I was.

This was after Rocco "helped" mummy put the dishwasher on. Straight after he'd eaten a chocolate biscuit.

I'm continually blown away by the huge bond between Tim and Rocco. I am so very proud of Tim ... he has come a long way. Rocco calls him "Bim" .... and calls Max "Mak." I love the way the woman in one of my favourite paintings is on Tims shoulder. Like a guardian angel.

I'm still treading water. Dave and I both are. Truth is, we worry. About Dave's health. About what's going to happen. Some people are blatant in asking about Dave .... so, how's Dave? Is everything ok? So he's ok?? Some people look at him like he's Lazarus.

It's tricky, navigating a busy life. I keep spectacularly failing. Pffffft. If I owe you a parcel I'm sorry. If I owe you an email I'm sorry. If I owe you a comment I'm sorry. The last batch of presents I sent over to the Americaz got returned to sender ... because I hadn't signed the bloody forms properly. I am now losing sleep. It's like I create things to worry about.

I tried to socialise with some other mums the other day .... small talk makes me stabby. I want to talk about your darkest dark, and how it compares to mine. They all laughed at my wrist tattoo, thought it said "I love myself" instead of "Know Thyself." One of them said, "Hah! Imagine if it DID say I love myself - and you had all scars there from trying to cut yourself!!"

Ha indeed.

Imagine if I blurted the truth, to the room of straighty-one-eighties? Imagine if I said "Actually, it says Know Thyself because it's a continual process to know ourselves. And I feel like if I don't, I'll die." And I let them all peer closer to the slash marks I made one drunken night in a locked bathroom. I didn't say that, of course. Just feigned a migraine and went home.

Man that lasagne was good.

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