Post-Pasta Post

Saw only one of my employers tabby cats today, I tried to pick him up (the cat that is) but he wasn't having any of it so I left him looking out through the cat flap. Silly puss. As I cleaned the upstairs windows I looked down onto a soggy windswept garden and then closed my eyes for a second. I imagined a June sun baking the borders, and bushes of various sizes and colours lighting up the lawn. And then I thought of Wimbledon, strawberries and dresses and for a second I had hope. Then I turned away from the window, lifted my skirt and stared at my wretched knee. 'If this melon doesn't deflate to the size of an orange' I said, 'I'm going to the doc.'

I made myself a mug of milkless tea for elevenses, and it wasn't as bad as I thought it might be. Why there wasn't any milk beats me, but I suppose a busy worried man embroiled in divorce proceedings can be forgiven for running out of milk.
And then I carried on doing what I had to do and after checking and re-checking all the rooms I made my way home.

Home.
Home to tomato soup and Monty. After the soup and news I dozed off in the kitchen armchair like an old lady who's downed too many Ports. But then, at around 3, I was up and about but with all kinds of emotional baggage weighing me down, so I had a cup of tea and a nice digestive biscuit.

Tonight's dinner was horrible. I should have listened to my heart and had a Chinese take way. I'll never make sausage pasta again.
I'm desperately sad, not because I messed up dinner but on account of being me.