Saturday At Work And Play

Photograph by Layla Burford: thank you :-)

Breakfast is messy; thick, hot, sweet; baked banana pancakes. Leftover espresso recycled with boiled water. Steam does a little dance over the mugs.

We think we might be awake.

Shirts pressed, ties tied, blazers brushed. Outside everyone winces in the wet cold.

The paperwork is safe in plastic boxes. A short drive is admired for its convenience. We do not always have the benefit of convenience.

In the car park are people shrinking which has a logic to it: less rain falls on a smaller area. We greet as we walk, brisk, chirpy, into the school and down the corridor and into the hall and say more hello, hello and get on with jobs. Wheel the meal tables out, stick floor numbers down, lay out the paperwork, find pens, count students, file them out. Herd them into grades, say Do This Do That and what, for example, can you tell me about why we do it. Sigh for their disappointments. Admire their achievements. Herd them up again for the Group Photograph. Watch them filter out, how they talk and share.

Stack back the paperwork, wheel in the meal tables, unstick the floor numbers: goodbye goodbye.

At home Dog sleeps. The sofa is how she likes it best: all to herself. She watches while we heat up with soup. Butternut squash. Home made bread. Rain lands lightly on the windowpanes.

Under the shelter of slender mossed trees wanders a muddy Dog and me.

Is this life lovely; one ponders; or is this delusional? Because one could grumble of things? Studies suggest attitude makes a life: is this true or a hoax to stop poor people blaming the rich? But rich people are unhappy too? Or just as delusional? Who knew such questions linger under these trees? Something to do with that moss shade of green? The branches hook overhead. They introvert.

Dog hits a leaf pile and slides. She looks ridiculous with her tongue flapping from the side of her mouth. She looks happy. We run down the bank together, so clumsy, laughing.

I think the trees were teasing.

At home the oven sits: a cute white box full of chicken and root vegetables, sputtering. More banana bakes in the Rayburn. Candles on the table, lit. Coffee, fresh, as the sun sinks and the weather climbs and how lucky we are, sitting here.

(Although Dog did steal Cat's food. Enough disharmony to make us normal, perhaps. Further queries may be found under the slender mossed trees.)