Sundays should be banned. The blues are just too hectic.
Yesterday I woke up with a slight nausea that's become synonymous with weekend mornings. I had, however, only partially contributed to the mass frenzy of wine drainage the afternoon/evening previous and so could not chalk my queasy stomach up to over indulgence.
I'd had every intention of going to church, but when I caught sight of myself in the mirror, I came to the conclusion that it was probably most considerate if I stayed away from the unsuspecting public. This sickness has taken it out of me - I am starting to look not disimilar to the goop that is sometimes found at the bottom of fruit and veggie trays in some fridges.
And if being sick wasn't enough, my brother (aka The Husband) and I officially divorced yesterday. He moved out (by 'moved out' read 'left all his stuff except for a bag of clothes and most of the nice towels'). I'd been looking forward to him leaving, thinking that perhaps it would be nice, perhaps natural even, for The Daughter and I to live alone. I was looking forward to still having cheese in my fridge on Sunday evenings. And not having to make extra sandwiches and tea in the mornings.
But now I realise my error. I miss The Husband, and he's only been gone for one sleep. Last night, I struggled more than I have ever struggled to get to sleep. Every time The Cat jumped about with some or other live creature, I was convinced that a light-footed burglar was creeping through my house, possibly helping himself to my shoes.
And then, at about 21h15, the next-door neighbour's dog started barking so furiously that I thought the miniature pooch must have actually been attacking the ankles of a violent thief. To be honest, I've never noticed the dog's existence until last night. I've not been too concerned with security, only locking the gate and leaving the door open to allow fresh air through the house. But when that mutt began yapping, it took all my courage to get up and steal through the house like a cat burglar myself.
And shit myself, did I. I tentatively placed one foot on the floor, then with the utmost care, placed my weight upon it. The old wooden floorboards creaked beneath my weight. Convinced that runaway convict of Great Expectations' fame was now onto my wakened state, I dropped into a leopard crawl position beside my bed.
My breathing was heavy. My heart beat, audible. Above the racket of my very own vital functions, I was completely unable to hear him helping himself to the silverware.
And then. A crash came. From the kitchen. I soiled my trousers, screamed and began to sob violently. "Oh Jesus, please don't let him find me. I beg you, send back The Husband. I will never again complain about his plates beside the couch. I promise I won't. I'll even stop swearing. I don't deserve this effing fear, do I?"
I slipped underneath my bed and began fumbling for the cellphone charger cord, so I could whip it under the bed, and call the South African equivalent of 911. My fear - nay, my situation - was perfect Sunday night of the 80's 911 Emergency viewing.
But, deep within my heart, I knew that even if the cops did know about my predicament, they'd be too busy doing nothing to respond to me. And so, being The Parent of The Household, I forced myself to go and assess the situation: The Cat, in the centre of the darkened kitchen, licking butter from the broken butter dish.
I need My Husband back. Or any Husband for that matter. I don't need him to share my bed, just to go to sleep in the spare room so I don't feel so alone. So, if you're done with yours, please send him over. He can have free reign of the remote control, eat all my cheese and I'll prepare daily lunches and morning tea. As long as I don't have to sleep alone again.