Settling back into routine again after a holiday always takes a few days; unzipped empty suitcases gape at me accusingly from the corner of the bedroom before they are packed away until the next time; the washing pile festers in another corner, and the passports are put back in the drawer. The summer clothes are hung again in the wardrobe in the vague hope that there will be some more warm weather sometime soon. It’s time to open the windows and let the fresh air in; to unpack the lavender soaps, stockpiled so there are enough to remind me of Provence all year round. And it’s time to get back into the swing of things.
Getting back into the swing of things can take many forms. There are lovely upsides like meeting my elderly dad from the bus after his return from a trip to Cornwall, his straw hat swinging from his neck as he says ‘Ye gods, what a journey!’ Hugging my grandchildren and spending time with them, and my granddaughter excitedly arriving to stay the night.
Today after spending some time putting the apartment here at Dove Lane to rights, I booked a much needed appointment at the nail salon; it was time to give my toes a treat.
Deep into Hello magazine, I switch off as my feet are scrutinised, scrubbed, trimmed, painted etc. I read about all the various celebrities and their busy, exotic lives. I read about the eye watering amount spent on someone’s engagement ring and the luxury homes of some familiar famous faces. For ten minutes I dip into the lives of the rich and famous, read a bit of the gossip, then put the magazine back on the pile where it belongs, and think about what to get for supper.
I sit and wait for my now snazzy nails to dry and look out of the window as the rain pours down and bounces off the tables outside the coffee shop. Absently think it would have been a good idea to have brought a brolly. And I wonder whether it had been worth blow drying my hair earlier.
The lady helps me slide my feet into my flip flops and I pay up and head for the door. Horizontal rain assaults me . Hurtling along to my car, my greasy feet slip on the wet ground and I half ski, half slide to my car, just saving myself from falling as I make a lunge for the door handle. Hanging from the handle I feel like a cartoon character, and can almost hear the wizzy sound effects of my feet going round and round. I hear some teenagers sniggering and feel silly. I want to glare at them and tell them it’s NOT FUNNY! But then – in the words of Daddy Pig – I suppose it is a BIT funny.
Blessings to you.