Cream Tea

28th October 2011 Friday

I wake to the sound of the pussy cat being sick on my slippers. My throat feels like a cauldron of razor blades. My first thought is that I shouldn’t go to my father’s in case I give him a cold. My second thought is that I’ve given myself this infection for some reason - anger turned inwards? - and he won’t get it because he doesn’t need it.

I rummage in the top drawer by my husband’s side of the bed.

Have you got the Paracetamol?

What’s that?

Headache pills.

Bottom drawer.

What my father does have is constipation because for the last two days I forgot to stir the sachet of Movicol into his breakfast juice along with the two spoons of flakey psyllium husks and the slippery soaked linseeds. But he did shave and get dressed today - little steps.

This afternoon I’m cleaning the loo when our friends from Brighton ring and say they are on their way and will be half an hour early. I haven’t made the scones yet. In my rush I pour in too much milk and the mixture is sticky and unwieldy. Ever since my Cranks days I’ve made tender, fat scones which always rise perfectly. These ones don’t and I think about calling them Cornish splits instead.

The clotted cream is runny, impossible to spoon up without leaving a fine spidery trail from bowl to scone. Our friends like it anyway and my sister’s plum jam is a huge hit. My chocolate brownie is possibly a sweet rich step too far but we all tuck in, the late sun dazzling our eyes, streaming into the kitchen like a tangerine river.

And I forget about my headache and the rasp in my throat for a little while - and what I could be angry about.