I'm not even current with my blog reading, except of course yours. I rush to check out your latest post every morning, before breakfast. It gives me a little hop in my step. When you haven't posted, the day is a grey swirl, hour heaped upon dismal worrying hour as I wonder why you haven't rearranged a room or bought new earrings or had a go making your own bagels. Should I phone...?
... and then the huge relief and an organic ginger biscuit as you appear in my rss reader.
Sometimes I'm briefly current with the chores, and then a small figure covered in spaghetti and chocolate sauce (not that we serve these proletarian foods) looms out of the household mist, triumphantly saying, "it's your pretend birthday, Mama, and we've made you a cake out of everything in the cupboard."
It's not always that much of a hardship not being current. I've learnt to scan the news and ignore the spectator-sport of farflung human interest that makes up so much of what the media reports. I happily wear the wrong boots, thinking to myself as I walk down the street that those ankle-strap bootlets with high heels worn by the current people look so odd. They surely think the same of mine. My current model mobile phone has just been through the wash. Your text message, "a girl, Daisy Cheriebelle, 7 pounds 2 ounces" may never reach me.
The question is, how does one get back on the bus ? Will there come a time when once again I can bandy immediacies at soirées or do mothers retreat forever into their own private time-capsule as the zeitgeist bolts heedlessly past?
I have a minor headache now. Stuck in 2005, with a minor headache.