293. The metamorphosis of the summer
'Mum! Come on, you need to come back home now. Schools go back on Wednesday. And I'm getting my books on Wednesday.'
Baby sounds a little concerned. Last year we came back very late and she missed the textbooks distribution and said it was so embarrassing to be the only kid without the books on day one. And even worse as she was a teacher's daughter. I had organised Miss Organiser to go and collect them but Miss Organiser had had other (better) things to organise.
'And I'm leaving on Wednesday. So you need to get back to see me. I haven't seen you in ages!' Miss Skick-Insect said.
Even Miss Organiser had left a message on the family group.
'If you're not back for the weekend I will not see you!'
I had almost forgotten I had a job. I was happy to see my children were there to remind me.
'I am driving back on Monday. Monday.' I repeated Monday so that it would stick to my mind and I would not forget. Sunday was a busy day I would not miss: invited to lunch, invited to dinner, morning at the pool, afternoon boating and maybe reading on the beach, etc. I could not possibly go back on Sunday.
I drove back on Monday. It was a long drive for the little pink car. Still when I came back the shock was as brutal as if I had been parachuted with no warning. I might have to take some time off to write about it. The trick is to tell my boss my blog is therapy yet what if he wants to check it out and see if I'm serious and he recognises himself? Then I'd be in trouble for the year.
24 hours later I am lying in my bed in my regular house (as opposed to the safe house). I stop reading to listen. Did I hear some scratching noise in the chimney? Did the dormice family follow me? I recall the sight of the baby ones darting across from the eaves to the vine. They were so tiny and fury that when they'd disappeared into the attic I had rushed up the stairs. I got there and totally unafraid now I walked over to the cage and got the apple out and released the mechanism.
'There. You're free to fool around to your heart's content.'
I wondered why I had bought the cage. Later at night when the rattling had changed into a banging that I could even hear the kitchen I had nearly gone back upstairs to set up the trap again. But as it was my last night in paradise I did not want such a grim thing around.
I made a special coffee. Strong and long. I tried to find my notepad from last year so I could find the codes. Impossible search. I gave up after 1 minute and thirty seconds.
'Mum! You're going to be late!'
'Just mind you do not miss your train!'
I am wearing my summer sandals (part of softening the blow, keep the sandals on until you get acclimatised to your work environment), cream with little golden sparkles, two straps and a leather sole, a pair of off-white jeans and my new acquisition from the tiny half-buried boutique in Salers: a plain 100% organic cotton designed and weaved by the couple selling them and not dyed to save on water so a natural creamy colour. In my hair the pin made from yak's bone, creamy colour too.
Miss Stick-Insect is staring at me.
'Are you going like that?'
'Yes. I love this top.' I start going on about the natural local weaved round the corner etc. She is not interested.
'You look like a priestess! Off to some druidic meeting in a clearing in the woods.'
Her dad phoned to say good bye (actually to make sure she would not miss the train) and I over heard her.
'Yes ... She's just leaving. She's dressed like a priestess actually.'
Two months in the house on the edge of the woods might have changed me more than I've realised. Or has that change taking place all along anyway? And how is this going to affect me in my job? Am I going to take the teenagers out to sit in a circle on the yellow grass and lead them into a meditation session getting them to chant Om ? Would that be acceptable as a breakthrough in language teaching methods?
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