I’m not naming names here – particularly since that would run counter to my desire to remain blame-free – but for the third day in a row, someone has forgotten to make my bed.
The bedspread is heaped at its foot, the sheet still thrown back as if I’ve just left, and there is an open book on my pillow.
This is not how it looks in the magazines.
It’s difficult, isn’t it, working full-time and trying to maintain a place. I’ve sold the day by the hour, the nights are for writing, the weekends for friends and family.
People think I’m funny – for a variety of reasons that don’t bear close inspection – but I’ve been known to take vacation days just to stay home and rearrange furniture.
My floors, for example. When were they last scrubbed? I’m thinking that if you cannot recall the last time you scrubbed your floors, it’s been a long time indeed. My kitchen floor is dotted with tiny, chalk outlines of the items that have fallen and died there.
And what of my closet? The floor of it is no longer visible, and if we push through my wardrobe far enough, you’ll see that there’s an upright-walking goat back there, just beyond the trees.
People don’t just make that stuff up, you know.
Ah, well, autumn is here; and that’s what it’s for: a seasonally enforced buckling down, a reminder that winter lurks and is thinking, casually, of killing you.
You’ll, of course, want to tidy up for it.