Onwards and upwards

Last night, I decided at around 9pm that I had had enough of the day and that I would go and spend the night in the basement where there was a chance of having a sleep uninterrupted by the flailing arms of Mrs. Ottawacker, the creaking floorboards implying Ottawacker Jr. was on his way for a final pee before going to sleep, the pitter pattering of tiny, furry feet trying to get into the bedroom through a locked door, or the sounds of errant raccoons setting off car alarms in a nearby street. My eyes were almost closed before I closed the basement door, brushed my teeth, kicked off my clothes and climbed into the new sheets. I tried to read for a page, but was too tired. Instead, I switched off the light, put my arm contentedly under the pillow, and was instantly wide awake. I remained in this condition until at least 2.45am, at which time I looked at the clock as I made my way disconsolately to the toilet. I did manage some sleep, but God knows how much. And when Ottawacker Jr. woke me up at 7 to go and get ready for the day, I felt like I had gone 10 rounds with Tyson or, at the very least, Mrs. Ottawacker’s elbows.
 
Go on then, explain that. How can someone so tired, who has had basically nothing to eat or drink for several hours, who could hardly form a coherent sentence, suddenly be wide awake? Maddening, insanely maddening.
 
And, as a consequence, today was a bit of a damp squib. I had an appointment with Odalia to cut my hair at 8, so go showered and dressed and drove there on time. And… like a variation on an Elgar theme, I was double booked. My experiences yesterday had taught me patience, so I sat there while the lady ahead of me was coloured and shoved under a heater (not all of her, you will understand, just her head). Then it was my turn (just not under the heater). Odalia, herself sporting a nice new hairstyle, did all the necessary. She is, however, fighting a losing battle with my hair. I think it is time to accept the reality that I am going to either have crap hair for the rest of my life or I am going to shave it. Is this how it happens? Do we just hit a certain age and then give up? Or is it just me?
 
In fact, I thought for the entire past month that I was going bald. Every time I got into the shower, the drain would clog up and I would have a puddle of water around my feet. Disconsolately, I would pull the hair out of the plug, throw it into the toilet, and rinse off. I mentioned this to Mrs. Ottawacker who was less than helpful. She just laughed.
 
“Oh my darling,” she said (she might not have used the word ‘darling’), “you really are so incredibly vain and, for someone who writes too much, incredibly un-noticing.”
 
I considered taking umbrage – especially about the “writing too much” comment – but my curiosity had been piqued. “What do you mean?” I asked. “What am I not noticing?”
“It’s been a long time since your hair resembled Donald Trump’s,” she said. And then walked off. Enigmatically.
 
After a deal of persuasion, she pointed out that all of the hair in the plug – or at least most of it – was orange. Not grey. And that, were a DNA sample to be taken or a forensic examination be done (in the unlikely chance, she added, that I were suddenly struck down by a woman who could take no more), it would reveal that it belonged to a rather portly 12-year-old cat. “This,” she reminded me, “is the same cat that has taken to climbing into the shower as soon as you have finished, rolling about in the pools of water you never clear up, and then scratching off her loose hair. If you brushed her, like you said you were going to, there would be less of it. It’s not about you. You are not going bald (yet). It is Tui. It is summer. She is shedding.”
 
And that was that.
 
Post-haircut, I made some breakfast, and sat down to do some work. It was painful. I managed around 1200 words of translation all day, so ended up doing some photos instead. It is hot again. Ottawacker Jr. was using his new-found freedom to ride every bus in the city. Mrs. Ottawacker was solving problems. I felt like a complete zombie.
 
The day passed, sort of. I took Ottawacker Jr. to his goalkeeper practice. Unbelievably, just before we left, a lady from the Children’s Hospital rang and wanted to speak to Ottawacker Jr. I passed him the phone and watched astounded as he started answering questions. On a scale of 1-10, how sore was his elbow (“1”)? Is he using Tylenol (“No”)? Was he using his elbow brace or the cold therapy machine (“No”)? Did he manage to sleep last night (“very well, thank you, much better than my dad”)? I could hear the timbre of his interlocutor’s voice rising as he answered the questions. “Wow,” she said. “You are doing really well.”
“Thanks,” he answered. And then hung up.
 
It was probably the most successful post-op follow-up phone call CHEO has ever had. I was proud of him for not divulging more information than he needed.
 
In the evening, he went to goalkeeping and came back claiming an injured foot. I made him chicken kebabs on a skewer while he showered. Then we watched a late episode of Rosemary and Thyme, while I explained to him about the effect Felicity Kendal can have on grown men.