17th August 2012 Friday
In town this morning we bump into four different dear friends, outside the bank, in the Boston Tea Party, at the library. A lovely unexpected pleasure - makes me feel I belong in my city.
We take my husband’s driving licence into the bank to prove he is who he says he is. Realise that from now on I must have a copy of his security details so that I can access our accounts too - I can’t just leave it to him now - all our money stuff. He used to do it all - just give me a letter and say ‘Sign here.’
He has just had notification of a ginormous tax bill which we have to pay in January. We talk about money on and off all day - on squashy sofas in the BTP, eating our avocado and tomato brushetta for lunch, walking along a forest path in and out of the sun, picking sweet peas at the allotment. We don’t decide anything but the conversation hangs in the humid air around us like damp washing.
Trying to get the syringe of fishy liquid into the pussy cat, after three attempts, leaves me in tears - it squirts all over the blanket and I’m afraid I’ve hurt his mouth. Later I mix it up with some natural yogurt and he takes a few licks. He doesn’t eat any of the four different kinds of cat food I tempt him with. I have to keep remembering to trust him. He’s getting thinner as I get fatter.
Tonight the kitchen counter is piled high with giant spinach leaves, purple beans, yellow beans, green beans, bulging pea pods, black radishes, a few cherry tomatoes and a bag of crinkled neroli cabbage. It’s late and inspiration and energy for cooking desert me. So I put it all away in the fridge and my lovely husband goes out for fish and chips instead. We watch Puss in Boots on a DVD with our own skinny puss curled beside me, breathing in and out to his own private rhythm.
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